


Twist tied at the feet

by ElisAttack



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Bottom Derek, Difficult Decisions, Gladiators, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It is not graphic but characters discuss it, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Pining Derek, Slave Derek, Slave Stiles Stilinski, Spartacus AU, Violence, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just as the Romans salted the earth of Carthage, they will beat you down, stretch you thin, force you kill your brothers for sport.  Even then, you cannot raise a hand against your Dominus.  Such is the life of the gladiator."</p><p>Or the one where Derek is a disgraced Roman citizen, enslaved after a grievous betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of my reading week side project. I'll get back to working on Bruises and Hickies when this is finished in one more chapter.
> 
> Basically, it's a Spartacus Sterek AU, taking elements from season one and smashing them together with bits and pieces from the other seasons. But it's different enough that you don't have to have watched the show beforehand (and there's less blood and gore. Much, much less.) 
> 
> As for prerequisite historical knowledge, none is required, a glossary is provided in the endnotes, along with warnings regarding the tags. If you still don't understand something, send me a message and I'll help you to the best of my ability
> 
> Oh, and the title is from The Darcys' Hunting

The sun beats hot on Derek's dirt covered back, glinting harsh through the bars of the cart as he is pulled through the streets of Ostia.  Rotten vegetables pelt the bars and more often than not they find their way through, coating him in a finger's width worth of filth.

Derek wonders how a life could change so quickly and abruptly.  Only a few days past he taught his nephew the proper way to hold a gladius, now the child lies dead in the ruins of his family's villa and no respectful burial will ease his way into the afterlife.  His small body will be left to rot along the roadside, serving as reminder of the consequences of betraying Rome.

Even when such betrayals are false.

Derek grew up the first and only son of a prominent Roman Senator.  His father was one of the richest men in the Republic.  A noble man, kind to his wife and children, but with mind sharp as flint when it came down to business.  Derek's mother was the esteemed daughter of a Magistrate and a gentle woman, but with a sense of wit equal, if not greater, than his father's. 

His family had everything:  power, prestige, wealth.  Derek never once thought he would be stripped of his position and reduced to mere a slave, his family slaughtered in front of him. 

Once, he was intent on the position of Praetor.  He was going to command an army, conquering territories for the Republic on the frontiers of Gaul.  _Once_.  Now, he is nothing but a slave, _a despised one at that_ , he thinks, as a rotten piece of fish is flung into the cart, hitting him square in the face.

Derek should have died with the rest of his family.  After being pulled from his bed and forced to fight for his life, he was cowardly cuffed across the back of head and thrust into unconsciousness, only to awaken in this cart, wounds days old, the last thing he remembers: a blade thrust into his sister's belly while their parents lay dead at her feet.  Derek doesn't understand why he isn't dead, as unjust as it may be.  At least then, he would be with those he loves in the afterlife.  It would be a merciful fate. 

The cart grinds to a halt and the gate is flung open with an awful creak.  The chain attached to the rusting collar around his neck tugs and he stumbles from the cart onto the dusty ground.  Earth rises in plumes as he shuffles tired feet forward, weak and hungry.   

Glancing up, he squints into the sun, revealing the house where he is to spend the rest of his days.  Recognizing the villa, his stomach sinks and everything suddenly clears. 

Derek laughs, his shoulders shaking.  The guard stares at him strangely as he is tugged along, but the laughter still falls from his lips like water fell from the sky the night his family was slaughtered in their beds and accused of being traitors.  As it hasn't fallen since.  The earth cracked and dry in drought, like his spirit.

This is his fate then?  He is not to be made a slave toiling away in the mines, but a slave to the Argents, to the woman who lusted after him at any opportunity, the woman who would not take no for an answer.

Kate stands on the balcony above the entrance, her beautiful face twisted in a smirk cruel enough for even the most hardened soldier to quake in his boots.  She licks her lips and Derek growls under his breath, furious.  Gerard Argent would have had much to gain with the fall of his family, as would Kate.  He would be hers to command, unwilling, but hers nonetheless.  The House of Hale's downfall was orchestrated by the people his father once called friends, a betrayal of the worst kind.

Derek spits into the dry sand though his throat is parched, making certain to hold Kate's gaze even as he is backhanded across the face and flung to the ground.

By the time he rises, she is gone from the balcony.

***

Derek is thrust into a deep, dark hole in the ludus and is seemingly forgotten.  He thinks it a blessing that he is not immediately called to Kate's bedchamber where her pleasure would be forced on him, even as his family lies not a fortnight dead.

The days are long and the air dry, impossible to breath easily.  He stews in the filth he was left in, skin raw and dirty such as it has never been before.  The hair he's always had removed from his chest begins to grow, a final jibe at what he has become, a slave with no right to groom his body such as is proper of a Roman citizen. 

All Derek can do is count days, carving into the soft brick every time piecemeal bread and water is thrust through a slat in the door.  He doesn't know what game Kate is playing, perhaps she plans on starving him until he cannot fight her advances.  Perhaps she watches him through the same slat, taking pleasure in his suffering. 

For all he may complain, it is better than being in her vile presence.

Derek met Kate Argent when he was but a boy of fifteen entering the cusp of manhood.  His father had thrown a banquet, calling forth all the noble families of Ostia.  From the moment Kate had walked into their villa and cast wanting eyes upon him, his fate was sealed.  She had greeted him with a smile and congratulations, pressing a perfume scented kiss to his cheek.  Derek had said what was required of him and moved on to the next guest, but she remained, lingering by his side throughout the whole night.

Even if Derek found her attractive, found her obsessed persistence charming, she was much too old for him.  In her late-twenties at the time, and recently divorced.

At the end of that night, she had smiled sweetly, promising to come back and see him.  But Derek's mother had caught her words.  She dashed any of Kate's hopes in one fell swoop, saying it wouldn't be proper, that Derek was officially a man.

But with the poisonous glare Kate sent his mother's way, Derek knew that nothing but the gods themselves could keep her away from possessing him.  Over the years, Derek discovered just how true that was.  His parents hosted many more parties, and the Argents were invited to all of them.  Kate included.

Derek lies on the simple cot in his cell, the light from the moon shining directly upon him through the impossibly tiny window, higher than he could reach.  The gods have forsaken him, he thinks, turning to face the wall, hoping that sleep in all her mercy cannot also evade him.

***

The door to the cell slams open and Derek startles awake.  Pulling his hands into fists, he rises to his feet, standing resolutely.  If they intends to drag him to Kate he won't go without a fight. 

His brow furrows when instead of guards bearing Argents' colours, an older man appears, hair light brown like dust and lined with grey as his forehead is lined with wrinkles.  Burnt into his forearm is a single _A_ :  the mark of the Argents, of brotherhood.  A gladiator.

"Come, rise to your feet.  A long day lies ahead."  The gladiator strides forward, throwing a pair of simple throng sandals at Derek's feet.

Derek glares, remaining silent and refusing to give words.  His hand is cautious as he reaches for the sandals.  The reeds are blood and sweat stained, falling apart and worth less than shit.  The leather sandals he owned when he was still a citizen were infinitely better than these, but Derek still dons them, any protection from sharp stones is better than no protection.   

Derek stares suspiciously at the back of the gladiator's head as he is lead through the dim corridors of the ludus.  Derek was never one to pass his days watching gladiatorial games in the arena, he much preferred honing his own craft.  But still, he's seen enough games that if this man was well known, Derek would have recognized his face.  Going by his age, he must be retired, probably fought in the arena before Derek's time. 

Glancing into rooms as they pass, the men within stare at Derek as he passes.  They are strong, muscles straining with power and seemingly better fed than he is.  Derek is starving on the Argents' whims, their way of asserting dominance over him.  Their way of declaring him property. 

He is so bone weary and weak in hunger, he nearly runs into the gladiator but stops himself before the collision.  The man isn't a guard, but he is strong, stronger than Derek is in his state.  He doesn't want to be the object of his displeasure.

The gladiator knocks a knuckle against an open door and the occupants of the room look up, their heads still pulled together like lovers even as they are addressed in a language Derek does not recognize. 

One of the men in the room catches Derek's attention.   His skin is pale as milk, a feature praised by typically darken skinned Romans and emulated in makeup.  He must be from the northern tribes:  Gaul or Germania.  Derek runs his gaze over coltish limbs, peeking from a short tunic.  He is plucked of all hair but covered in constellations of moles, like Caelus himself reached down from the heavens and touched him in blessing.

This is no gladiator, this is a decorative house slave.  Beautiful to look at, and even more pleasurable to fuck.  The Hispanic man who sits opposite on the small cot must have requested him as reward for a major win in the arena.  The Hispanic bears the brand of the Argents', marking him as a gladiator, further evidenced by a jaw crooked from being broken and healed.  Derek recognizes him, but before he can put a name to a face, his attention is drawn to the feeling of eyes traversing his skin. 

Looking back at the pale slave, Derek finds eyes golden as honey, bright and intelligent, openly studying him, eyes lingering on his abdomen as he tilts a fine neck to the side.  "You are Roman."  The man says with a voice low and husky, unexpected from a mouth so cherubic.  

"A keen observation,"  Derek responds, even as he swore not to speak.  There is something in the man's eyes making Derek's tongue loose and willing.

"One easy to reach.  You bear no mark of a previous ludus, yet your body is toned as a soldier's.  You cannot be a recently captured slave, you carry yourself as a Roman, arrogance in your very being."  The man sneers, unafraid to show just how much he detests his masters.

Something tightens in his gut, displeasure at the words pouring from the man's mouth.  It's a strange feeling.  Derek was once proud to call himself Roman, that pride has since turned to dust. 

"I am no Roman."  Derek spits, just as the greying gladiator pulls him along.  Not before he catches the look of surprise on the slave's face.  _Good_.  Derek thinks.  He owes no loyalty or allegiance to the Republic, not anymore.

***

The gladiator leads him into a massive courtyard open to the elements.  Training posts, etched with cuts from blades mark the sand. 

Men stand to attention as he is brought forth.  At first Derek thinks they are staring at him, but then he realizes it is not his form drawing their attention, but the greying gladiator as he deposits Derek amongst a group of men bearing no marks upon their forearms.  The men appear nervous and fresh from the slave markets, wearing nothing but rags hanging off lean frames. 

"Doctore!"  A gladiator calls, addressing the greying gladiator with the title of a respected former champion, a man who no longer fights in the arena, but instead trains others to be Gods of the Arena as he once was.  "These are the new recruits?"

So that is his fate.  He is to become a gladiator, not a sex slave.  Derek cannot help but feel some modicum of relief.  At least now he will die at the end of a sword on his terms, not whenever Kate tires of him. 

"Yes, these are the men who are to be your brothers."  The Doctore waves at the group with one hand, with the other he draws a single tail whip from his belt, wrapping the strong leather cord around his fist. 

"If they should last long enough!"  A man shouts, and guffaws sound as the other gladiators laugh.  One of them whips a stone at the man standing beside Derek, a massive Numidian with thighs like tree trunks and an expression of peaceful serenity, impressive considering all the others appear as if they are about to piss themselves.  The stone bounces off the man and he doesn't even blink, but the gladiator who threw the stone huffs, impressed.

"Recruits!"  The Doctore circles the group, his feet moving like a dance amongst the sand,  Derek eyes him warily.  "You will be pushed to your breaking point.  You will be taunted by the men you wish to call you brothers.  You will be humiliated..." 

Derek's attention is drawn from the Doctore, eye catching movement in his peripheral.  The Hispanic gladiator and the slave from before stand by the edge of the courtyard.  The slave leans against a pillar, holding an apple in hand as the gladiator stands behind him, seemingly deferent.

The slave bites into the apple, watching Derek as juice runs down his arm.  Derek tears his gaze away when the man moves to lick the juice, pink tongue darting from behind parted lips.  His distraction nearly costs him grievous injury.  He hears the crack of the whip just in time to dodge its path.  It rises a cloud of dust as it carves a scar onto the earth, instead of the blood it would have found if it met its mark.

"Recruit,"  the Doctore says, his voice hushed. "Do you think you need no training?  Did you come to us arena ready?"  The Doctore's words spike laughter in the gathered gladiators, they jeer, expecting the Doctore to discipline him.

Derek tightens his jaw but says nothing, he simply raises his eyes, meeting the Doctore's.

"Stiles!"  The Doctore shouts, eyes never leaving Derek's, even as Derek tears his away to watch the house slave snap to attention, "Fetch a wooden sword."

"Only one?"  The house slave, no, _Stiles_ quirks his brow.

"I think it only fair."  The Doctore says, finger running delicately down the length of the whip.

Stiles smirks and runs into the ludus, retuning only a moment later, a chipped and roughly hewn sword in hand, handing it to Derek with a leer.

Derek weighs it in hand, making a face when he finds it light, it will splinter easily.  He glares.  A softwood practice sword has no use as anything but decoration.  He should have been given a hardwood sword.  Stiles catches his eyes, mouthing, 'it's only fair.'

Derek makes a face.

"Problem?"  The Doctore asks but Derek just spins the light wood, getting used to a weight different from the dulled bronze blades he usually practices with.

Derek shakes his head, refusing to whine and moan, Stiles is playing a game with him, Derek might as well play along. 

He moves into stance, legs braced and steady.  Surprisingly, the Doctore folds his whip, tucking it back into his belt.  What is he going to use if not that?  The man did not ask for another blade, does he plan on fighting with his fists?

Apparently so, because the man yells and runs towards Derek.  Derek swings the sword, but the Doctore dodges it, light on his feet, and jabs a hand right into Derek's torso.  He gasps in air, winded.  Shaking off the blow, Derek steps to the side, dodging the man's next attack. 

Watching the Doctore's shoulders in anticipation for his next movements, Derek detects a dip and twirling around, he nearly catches him on the shoulder, but the man must be a cat, because he dodges the blow easily.  Derek grits his teeth when his vision spins, the exertion of the fight getting to his thirsty and hungry brain.  He blanks for a mere second and somehow finds himself on his back, his own blade pressed to throat by a hand not his. 

Swallowing, his throat nudges the tip.  Derek can palpably feel the smugness radiating off the Doctore.

"That is why Roman fighting techniques are useless in the arena."  The Doctore reaches down, offering his hand.  Derek clasps it, rising to his feet.  Stiles has moved back to the Hispanic gladiator's side and Derek cannot help but shoot a glare his way.  Stiles responds with a rude gesture.  "Tell me, recruit, why did you fail?"

Derek lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing at his throat.  "Because Romans are taught to fight in military formation, strategy is key and no man fights by himself or for himself."

"In the arena it is every man for himself."  The Doctore nods to Derek, and he moves back to the Numidian's side, dismissed.  "Unless you are fighting an opponent in conjunction with your brothers, expecting another to defend your back will have you dead within a moment.  You fight for yourself.  To keep yourself alive, so that one day you might be free."

Derek's jaw tenses at those words, he looks away, staring at the reed sandals covering his feet.  Even if he manages to forget years of tuition in Roman battle techniques and wins all his battles in the arena, as a traitor to the Republic, he won't ever be allowed to buy his freedom.  Derek will die amongst spilled blood and sand.  Such is his fate.

***

"What is your name?"  Derek asks the Numidian when the Doctore assigns them to practice techniques against each other.  It is only respectful to know the name of the man at the end of his sword, something instructed to him at a young age.

The Numidian says nothing as he stares, and Derek begins to wonder if he even knows Latin.  Eventually his mouth moves and, "Boyd," pours from his lips, swinging his blade clumsily like he's never held one before in his life.  "I was a farmer, not a warrior."

"I can see that."  Derek remarks, easily blocking the strike.  "You keep your body open to attack, here and here."  Derek points to his neck and belly.  "Do not think your size accords you an advantage, even a child could strike you down the way you are now."

Boyd huffs, and shifts his stance according to Derek's instruction.

"Good."  Derek waves him forward again.

Stiles had disappeared after the Doctore's show, assumingly to return to whatever duties he must hold when he is not expected to pleasure the Hispanic gladiator.  Derek feels a mixed sense of relief and a pang of disappointment in his absence.  The slave's gaze is unnerving, but it spikes something in Derek.  A desire to show off, to prove himself someone Stiles would cheer on, not mock and trick. 

It's strange, but Derek has never felt this way before for a man.  When Paige was invited to their villa by his sisters, he may have flexed his muscles more than necessary in an effort to garner her attention, but she was a potential wife, a woman, someone he wanted to impress.  Stiles is most definitely not.

Stiles is a man, and Derek has never been attracted to a man before.  Roman men never fuck other citizens.  Being penetrated is something left to slaves and women, a good Roman citizen only places his cock in things, not the other way around. 

Derek was never one to take his pleasure in slaves, not with the way Kate looked at him, and eventually grew bold enough to touch him.  He knows what it is to be on the receiving end of an unwanted touch, and he never wanted to inflict that upon a slave, no matter how much it is encouraged by Roman society.

If Derek had told anyone about Kate, he would have been laughed at.  He should have been glad a beautiful woman wanted him, thankful even.  Saying that he was afraid of her and what she is capable of would have erased his masculinity and the position of Praetor would have become a farfetched dream.  So he kept his mouth still, even as meandering hands had dipped beneath his robes.  In the end, his suffered silence was for naught.

Derek shakes himself out of melancholic thought and concentrates on teaching Boyd.  He catches the Doctore sending him a pleased nod and Derek feels himself swell with pride.  Derek respects the older man.  Their sparring was a refreshing breath of air, since he hadn't been defeated in practice in a very long time.  Derek looks forward to fighting the man again.

Midway through the day, with the sun high in the sky, he pulls water from a vessel.  Thirstily gulping it down, Derek rotates his neck and shoulders, aching from gripping a practice blade all day, when a flash of colour catches his eye. 

Kate stands on the balcony above the courtyard wearing a familiar blue silk dress he last saw on Laura weeks ago.  Derek drops the terra cotta cup back into the vessel, water splashing over the lip.  Righteous fury thrums in his bones as he stares at the dress, his vision tinted red.  Kate catches his eye and waves her carmine stained fingers, smiling like the she-wolf she is.  Her teeth bare in victory, knowing she received the reaction she so desired from Derek.

Suddenly he hopes she calls on him, he hopes he is summoned to her rooms, right to the foot of her very bed, because he is going to snap her neck.  He is going to kill her before she can lay her cold, vile hands upon him again.

***

Days pass into weeks and yet Kate remains absent from sight.  He looks for her, seeks her out, but if she is still spying on him, she evades his gaze. 

She never summons him as he hoped, the woman may be insane, but she is not stupid.  She knows what Derek will do to her, and she holds no leverage preventing him from taking his revenge.

So Derek spends his days amongst the sands of the courtyard, absorbing techniques and forms from the Doctore, more than what his expensive tutors ever managed to impart. 

Eventually, he learns the name of the Hispanic gladiator with the crooked jaw.  Scott, the reigning champion of the ludus, born and raised amongst the sands of the arena, the son of a gladiator and house slave, his father killed in the arena soon after his birth.  He was raised by the Doctore, who was granted permission to take Scott's mother, Melissa, as wife due to his elevated status.

Scott, Derek soon discovers, is of the talkative sort.  Friendly and amicable, a strange personality, considering the amount of men he must have slaughtered to don his worthy title. 

Most nights Derek lies awake, wondering of things that might have been.  If he was still a citizen, would Paige have accepted his proposal?  Would they have been happy together?  As a slave, Derek will never know the feeling of another in his arms, he will never know what it is to hold his own begotten child.  So much is forever lost to him. 

***

Stiles is a constant presence in the ludus, whether it be wandering the halls, or cooped up in Scott's room with heads pulled together, talking in secret.  Scott must be spending most of his gladiatorial winnings on Stiles' constant presence, especially considering he's not a mere prostitute, but the Argents' own house slave. 

They must be in love.  Or at least Scott must be, Derek finds it incredibly difficult to read Stiles from the few glances he sneaks of the man.  He has the most incredible mask of apathy Derek has ever seen in his life.  It makes him want to know more.  What Stiles likes, what he wants, his hopes, his desires, what it would take to shatter that mask, revealing the real man underneath.

At the midday meal, Derek stands by the gruel pot spooning some into his bowl when he catches sight of Stiles and Scott sitting together.  Scott eats his gruel with one arm casually draped around Stiles' shoulders, but his concentration is held by another gladiator, arms waving as he relates a tale of his win the previous day.  Stiles scoops up his last bit of gruel and Derek almost drops his bowl when Stiles' cheeks hollow, sucking and licking fingers clean.

Derek tears his gaze away, intent on focusing on his task.  The next thing he knows, Stiles is standing close, reaching for the ladle in Derek's hand.

"Are you done?"  Stiles asks, gaze rising so honeyed eyes meet Derek's, "It's as if you're trying to contemplate Aristotle's syllogisms through the medium of gruel.  Overcooked food is disgusting, this gruel is overcooked, therefore gruel is disgusting."  Stiles makes a distasteful expression at the pot, even though here he is, intent on helping himself to a second helping of the 'disgusting' gruel.

"You read Aristotle?"  Derek asks, curious.                                                                                

Stiles scoffs.  "I am a slave, I've always been a slave.  What do you think?"

"And yet you know of him."

Stiles scoffs.  "There is a nary a man who knows not of Aristotle."

"You speak as if you _know_ of his writings."

Stiles glares,  "Enough of this tedious talk, give me the damned ladle or I will sack you in the balls, I swear it."

Derek quickly hands over the ladle, knowing the battle is lost.  Disgruntled, he joins Boyd at his table.  Thankfully the man says nothing about Derek's unresponsive reaction to an open challenge of _ball kicking_.  Any other gladiator would not have walked away from an insult without spilling blood, but Derek isn't a gladiator and he wishes no harm on Stiles' person, no matter how mouthy the man happens to be.  

Derek is not yet a gladiator, but initiation is in but a few weeks.

***

The next time Derek sees Stiles, a purplish bruise darkens his left eye.  Something primal roars inside Derek, anger coursing through his veins.  As he passes Stiles in the hallway, Derek quickly grabs his arm, pulling him into an open room and shutting the door behind them.

"What the hell are you doing?"  Stiles demands angrily, his eyes showing no fear.  Derek lifts his hand from Stiles' arm and the man pulls it to his chest, rubbing the skin as if to remove all traces of Derek's presence.

"I simply wish to speak, no harm will befall you at my hands."  Derek looks into Stiles' eyes trying to project reassurance, until the anger is replaced with suspicion and a hint of curiosity.

"What do you want from me?"  A trace of vulnerability creeps into Stiles' tone, but he manages to keep his mask intact.

Derek raises his palms up.  "I have no intention towards anything you are unwilling to give."

Stiles' eyes narrow and his lips stretch into a thin line.  "Then I am unwilling to give, will you take it now?"

"No."  Derek whispers hurriedly.  "I just wanted to know if Scott was treating you well."  Derek's eyes trace over the bruise.

"As well as always."  Stiles tips his head to the side, brow creased, seemingly not understanding that Derek is asking if Scott hurt him.

"Is he rough with you...?"  Derek searches Stiles' face for any hint of distress, but the man quirks a brow, smiling fondly, a reaction Derek was not expecting. 

"He's always been rough with me, ever since we were children."

Derek flares his nostrils, and digs his nails into palms, keeping his anger in check as not to frighten Stiles.  He believed Scott to be an honourable man, but this is his true face?  An abuser whose lover is so accustomed to being hurt he would reminisce fondly on the abuse?  "I could make him stop,"  Derek offers,  "a lover should be gentle and caring, should hold you, not harm you, no matter his profession whether it be senator, soldier, or gladiator."

"Lover..."  Stiles parrots dumbly.

"I would have persuasive words with Scott, if you so wish it."

"Lover..."

"Simply say the words and I will stop him."  Derek nods, leaving his offer in the open for Stiles to take.

Stiles' mouth gapes, but before Derek can ask him what is wrong, he speaks, "you are grievously mistaken, for Scott is my brother."

Derek's eyes narrow in fury,  "And yet he still takes you to _bed_?  Forget words, there will be blood."

Stiles laughs abruptly, bending over slightly as hands clench his sides in mirth.  Stiles has never laughed in front of him before, and Derek can do nothing but stare in abject wonder.  He laughs, and it is as if Apollo casts a bright light down upon him.  When melodic music pours from his lips like the sweetest honey, Stiles is more beautiful than dawn herself.  That is, until the next words pass from his lips,  "You can be obtuse for one so educated." 

Derek frowns, but Stiles continues regardless,  "Scott calls me to his room because it is the only way he can protect me.  We talk, not fuck, the guard following me around when I am in his presence makes sure of it.  Besides, he has others for that.  I am vestal, as my Dominus commands of me."  Stiles purses his lips, looking remarkably put out.  "I am not even allowed to take myself in hand, he likes the look of my cock and wouldn't have my 'filthy' hands soil it."

Derek blinks.  "How do you piss without taking hold of it?"

Stiles laughs.  "Very difficultly."

Derek snorts. "What?  Do you hold yourself through your clothes?"

Stiles smirks mischievously, "What do you think?"

Derek chuckles.  "That you aren't as vestal as your Dominus would believe."

"What can I say?"  Stiles looks up at Derek through his lashes, "I am extremely resourceful."

Derek smiles fondly, feeling his face flood with blood under Stiles' intense gaze, but his eye is once again drawn to the bruise. 

Lifting his hand, Derek lightly ghosts his fingers just under the purple bloom, quickly withdrawing when Stiles hisses. "Is this why you need Scott to protect you?"  He asks, afraid of the answer.

Stiles looks away, chuckling humourlessly.  "Evidently you have yet to meet the Dominus of the house."

"I've met the man before..."  Derek trails off but Stiles nods like he knows what Derek is saying.  He met Gerard when he was still a citizen, but Gerard always ignored him, except once, when Derek caught the man smirking at him, like he knew only a few minutes before his daughter had been pawing at Derek's unwilling body.

"You've never met him as a slave."  Stiles shudders,  "He will remind you exactly what it is to be called _property_."

***                                                               

It is as if Stiles' words are prophetic, Derek is summoned to the Argent villa the next day. 

He's in the midst of a training session, practicing gladius techniques with a rapidly improving Boyd, when Gerard's right hand man and former gladiator, Jackson, saunters into the courtyard.

A veteran named Ennis laughs when he sees Jackson, nudging at one of his companions and making a rude gesture.  Jackson sneers at the display before looking away and catching Derek's eye, inclining his head slightly.  Derek tosses his sword to another recruit who slides up to practice with Boyd in his place.

"What do you want?"  Derek draws near, wiping the sweat from his brow, feeling it run down his skin, into the curls of hair now sprouting freely from his chest.  He cannot help but feel some modicum of aversion for it, but since the others all sport similarly hairy bodies he does not let his deeply ingrained Roman obsession with vanity get to him.

Jackson looks him over distastefully.  From what Derek heard of the man he used to be a gladiator before Gerard snatched him up to run errands.  Now, he is nothing but a glorified messenger with an inflated sense of his own importance.

"You're wanted in the villa,"  Jackson wrinkles his nose, "but take a bath first."  As Derek moves to pass him, Jackson grabs his arm, pulling him closer.  Derek is tempted to yank the offending appendage out of its socket.  "You are treated well because the men respect you."

Derek quirks his brow.  "Your point?"

"You have yet to receive the mark of the brotherhood."  Jackson's fingers trail down Derek's forearm. tapping lightly where the brand should lie, Derek pulls away.  "The longer you go without it, the greater the chance of the men losing that respect.  If you had someone close to Gerard, someone who has sway over various decisions, someone who could perhaps urge him to give you the brand, well... That could only benefit you."

Derek narrows his eyes.

"For a small price of course."

Derek sneers.  " _Of course_."

"You hold the men's respect, if you could put in a few good words about me?  The thing is...  I run a very profitable side business.  I acquire things for the men, things they are unable to purchase from within the ludus.  But without customers, my business is nothing."  Jackson pats Derek on his sweaty chest, only to grimace and wipe his hand on his tunic.  "You could tell the men about my business, encourage them to put their faith in me-"  Derek snorts, interrupting Jackson's tirade.

"Your entire argument relies on one point, far from the truth.  I don't _want_ to be a gladiator.  I did not choose this, I was ripped from my family and thrust in this hell hole, I couldn't care less about how long it takes me to get to the arena, so long as I get there."  Derek shoves Jackson to the side, striding into the shade of the ludus, down to the baths.

"You'll regret this!"  Jackson shouts after him.

"I regret a lot of things,"  Derek murmurs when he is out of earshot, "this will not be one of them."

Free of all dirt and grime and dressed in a loin cloth that barely covers anything, Derek stands beside a decadent fountain with frolicking cherubs shooting water out of their mouths.  He shuffles uncomfortably, but at least the mosaic beneath his feet is cool enough to feel through his sandals, offering some bit of relief from the heat.  It hasn't rained since the night his family was slaughtered, and Derek cannot help but take it as a sign of displeasure from the gods.

Derek tugs on the restraints around his wrists, shifting so the chains keeping his feet no more than shoulder's width apart clink against the tile.  The Argents are being careful.  He is not longer separated from them by gate and grill, he is in their midst, aching for revenge.

"You appear shorter than I remember."  Gerard says, striding into view.  Stiles walks at his back, a tunic hanging off his shoulders and barely covering the tops of his thighs.  He holds jug of wine in hand, grape leaves woven into his hair like he is the personification of Bacchus himself. 

He meets Derek's gaze for one long second before tearing it away to stare somewhere off Derek's shoulder.

"Speak, slave."  Gerard says, standing a sizable distance away.

Derek huffs.  "It must be the gruel."

Gerard tilts his head towards Stiles and the man hurriedly fills a goblet with watered wine.  "A different diet than what you're used to.  I clearly remember you favouring pork?"

Derek shakes his head,  "I much prefer figs to anything else."

"How common,"  Gerard drones, taking a deep gulp of wine, finishing the cup.  Stiles moves to pour more.  "I have my whores eat figs, you know?  It's an aphrodisiac, makes them perform better."  Gerard licks his lips, smiling like he's recalling an encounter.  Derek shudders, pitying the poor woman or man paid to lie with such a creature.  "Do you miss them?"

Derek's eyes narrow at Gerard's words,  "Miss what?"  He asks carefully, knowing if the man says Derek's family he's going to launch at him.

"Figs."

Derek lets out a heavy sigh.  "I suppose."

Gerard snaps his fingers, "Stiles."  He drawls and Stiles snaps to attention, gripping the jug of wine even tighter.

"Yes, Dominus?"  Derek detects a hint of anxiety in his voice, like he knows Gerard might command anything of him, no matter how farfetched and he will have to obey it.

"Bring some figs."  He orders and Stiles lets out an audible breath of relief.

"Yes, Dominus."  Stiles walks to a table bearing platters of fruits.  He picks up a bowl of figs and returns to Gerard's side.  Derek watches at Stiles carefully chooses and lifts a fig to Gerard's mouth but the man shakes his head, pointing to Derek.

"Feed him."

Stiles' eyes shift to meet his, throat bobbing as he steps closer to Derek, the fig bowl cradled in his elbow.  Stiles stops an arm's length away, holding the fig out in offering but doesn't come any closer, just waits for Derek to take it from his fingers. 

Derek does, biting the whole fruit, lips careful to not to even graze the tips of Stiles' digits.  He is not like Gerard, Derek won't touch Stiles without his express permission.

"No,"  Gerard says and Stiles visibly stiffens, "Feed him like you feed me.  He was once a noble son, didn't you know?"  Gerard mocks.

"Yes, Dominus."  Stiles takes a step in, until he is only a fingerbreadth away.  Derek feels the ghost of Stiles' breath ruffle the beard overgrown on his face, can clearly see his honey eyes swim with firmly fixed apathy.  His mask is bound on tight but if this how he feeds Gerard, it only makes sense that he hides his emotions.

The next fig Stiles selects, he presses right to Derek's lips, staring at him like he doesn't even see him.  Derek bites into the fig, intending to take it right from Stiles' fingers without unnecessary touching, but Gerard makes a scornful noise.

"Bite it in half, don't take it from his fingers like a trained dog.  Act like the beast you are."

Derek meets Stiles' eyes and tries to convey how sorry he is, before biting into the juicy fig.  It is overly ripe so the juice runs down Stiles palm, collecting at his wrist before trickling down his forearm.

"Lick him clean, dog."

Derek's eyes narrow in anger, there's only so many insults he can take before he snaps, but he cannot help remember the laws concerning slaves.  If one slave kills his Dominus, the whole household is put to death.  Does Derek have it in him to sentence Stiles, Scott, the Doctore, Boyd, all the innocent men and women in this cesspit for petty revenge?  Derek watches Stiles blink big honey eyes, lashes fluttering, and Derek's heart catches in his chest.  No, he can do no such thing.

Mechanically, Stiles offers his arm for Derek, and resigned, Derek laps quickly at the juice, eyes closed so he doesn't have to look at whatever expression clouds Stiles' face.

When it is done, Derek glances over at Gerard, wondering just what this is all supposed to mean.  Is this his way of asserting dominance over his slaves, reminding them, as Stiles once said, 'what it is to be called property?'

Derek's eyes widen when he finds Gerard watching them with a hand slipped beneath his toga, hand moving, visibly touching himself.   Derek makes a face of disgust, tearing his eyes away, feeling violated.

Stiles tsks, "Don't be bothered by it."  He whispers in Derek's ear so Gerard cannot hear, "He does this often, be thankful _you_ don't have to feed him whilst he pleasures himself."

"I'm sorry,"  Derek whispers, sorry that Stiles has to put up with Gerard's voyeurism, sorry that he is treated worse than a whore, sorry that Romans are such a repugnant people, sorry that he is a slave.  Derek is sorry for many, many things.

Stiles lips twist in a strained smile, "Don't be, it's not your fault."

"Stiles, wine."  Stiles sends Derek one last look before he picks up the jug of wine, pouring the watered-down liquid into Gerard's cup.  The older man eyes him with a curl to his lip, but Derek meets his gaze calmly.

"You are to be initiated tonight and if you live, given my mark.  In a fortnight, you will fight in the arena."

Derek bows his head, "Dominus,"  He says mockingly, but Gerard doesn't appear to catch the hint of disdain.

" _If_ you live, slave."  Gerard twirls on his heel, Stiles following a step after but not before sending Derek an encouraging smile.

***

"You're to be facing me tonight."  Scott grins, squatting down at his and Boyd's table during the midday meal. 

Derek smiles, "I look forward to it, so long as you don't kill me."

Scott laughs, his shoulders shaking in mirth.  "I'll try not to, Stiles seems fond of you."

"Is he?"  Derek smiles warmly, he thought Stiles hated him.  Boyd roll his eyes and Derek kicks him in the shin, but the man just smirks, chewing his bread.

"Gods know why, you are like sour wine."  Derek frowns, "see, that is exactly what I mean, always frowning with your colossal brows."  Scott traces a finger over his own eyebrows.  "You are like Hercules, a man of little words, but much expression."

Derek chuckles, "Are you calling me a god?"

Scott huffs, "Hercules was not born a god, he was born a man, and men make mistakes."  Scott says, his voice developing an edge.  "Men lust after that which they cannot have, and when they have obtained heart's desire, it is often forgotten for cravings even more unattainable."

Derek narrows his eyes, stiffening in his seat.  He feels Boyd do the same beside him, preparing for anything to happen.  "What are you saying?"  Derek asks carefully.

Scott traces a knot on the surface of the table with his thumb, staring deeply into Derek's eyes, "I'm saying don't cast him as your Iolaus if you view him as yet another hole to fuck."  Derek recoils at the venom in Scott's tone. 

Leaning back in, Derek whispers harshly,  "You know nothing of me." 

Scott snorts, rising from the table, "I know nothing of you, but I know something of Romans,"  he politely sweeps the crumbs from the table onto the floor.  "I'll see you tonight in the courtyard,"  he says, walking away.

Derek slumps in his seat as Boyd pats him on the shoulder, offering a small amount of comfort.

***

The torches blaze in their sconces, lighting the dark courtyard with a warm glow.  The sky is a dark indigo like ripened olives and the stars burn brighter than normal. 

The moon hangs full and heavy, Diana herself casting a blessing upon the initiates.

Derek stands at attention beside Boyd, set to face the gladiator, Ennis.  Derek's been watching Ennis spar, finding him slow and lumbering.  With the new foot techniques Derek taught Boyd, he is sure to claim an easy victory over the man.

Initiation is not _meant_ to be a fight to the death, but it can be.  Derek eyes the wooden platform erected high off the ground.  Defeat comes if a recruit is knocked off the platform, if he gives up, or he dies.  Those that fail or surrender are sent to the mines, a fate worse than death.

Victory can come to the initiate who knocks his opponent gladiator off the platform, kills him and takes his title, or forces submission.  Success can also be achieved if the opponents are evenly matched.

The whole Argent family stands on the balcony above the courtyard, making a spectacle of the night, with house slaves serving food and drink to those in attendance.  Derek spots Stiles among those gathered, wearing an even smaller tunic than before, he catches Derek's eye once before disappearing into the crowd.

Thankfully, Kate is as elusive as ever, Derek doesn't see her gathered among the crowd.

Scott stands directly under the balcony talking to the son of a prominent senator, Isaac Lahey, while a woman recognizable as Allison Argent holds onto Isaac's arm. 

Derek remembers their wedding, it was an extravagant affair, funded by Isaac's reluctant father.  It is well known that Senator Lahey did not condone the marriage of his son to the daughter of a mere Lanista, but since his eldest had already produced a healthy male heir, Isaac and Allison's love match did not matter enough for the Senator to care. 

Scott smiles at Isaac like they share a secret, soft and private, with his head ducked and ears a warm red.  Derek wonders if this is what Stiles meant when he said Scott had others for him to fuck.  Suddenly, Allison's face blushes a bright pink, and Derek thinks yes, this is exactly what Stiles meant.

A gladiator as a willing lover to a married Roman couple...  How scandalous.  Derek shakes his head, chuckling.  The three of them are so obvious, Laura would have seen them and laughed aloud, for they hide nothing yet no one seems aware of the affair.  Derek turns away, it is none of his business.  Besides, memories of Laura's love of gossip turn his mood sour.  He turns to focus on the task at hand.

He is not to be given amour for the initiation only a simple sword and shield.  It doesn't matter to him, the platform is narrow and unsturdy, armour would slow his movements, make him clumsy. 

Derek stretches out his limbs.  He is to go last, after all the other initiates have performed.  Gerard's way of extending the entertainment as long as he can.  The man wants to watch Derek die, whether it be against Scott or others in the arena, but when it happens, he wants it to be the highlight of his evening.

Derek strives to give him a show he won't soon forget.

The night passes quickly, the first three initiates are slain within a minute, the next three surrender and will be sent to the mines.  Boyd is the only one who remains on the platform, matching Ennis blow for blow until Gerard calls a draw to their battle, welcoming Boyd into the brotherhood.

When the moon is high in the sky and the crowd yearns for sleep, it is Derek's turn to face Scott.

Handed a sharpened gladius and shield by the Doctore, he heaves himself onto the platform where Scott stands, blade and shield in hand.  He nods his head to Derek as a sign of respect and Derek makes the same gesture back. 

His eyes move over Scott's shoulder, locking eyes with Stiles as he stands by Gerard's side, a expression of fear and worry creasing his brow. 

Worry that Derek might kill his friend and brother, but Derek has not intentions on Scott's life, simply Scott's misplaced footing.

"Begin!"  Gerard officiates and Derek slides into position, shield held tight to his forearm, sword gripped firm but relaxed.  Footwork is valued over technique on a platform of this size, and no matter how skilled he is with the blade, a misplaced step might lead to his death.

Scott slides into a similar position, eyeing Derek, waiting to see who will make the first move.  From what Derek has studied of Scott's technique, he knows it will be him.  The man has just as much patience as Stiles, which is to say, none at all.

Scott steps forward, and the platform groans in protest,  "Are you ready?"  Scott asks, eyes lingering on Derek's shoulder, waiting for his muscles to give away his movements.

Derek smirks, but instead of swinging his blade, he stomps on a board, shaking the platform roughly so that Scott stumbles a step, Derek takes that as a welcome opening.  Sprinting forward, he rams into Scott, shield first with the full weight of his body, sending the man's sword flinging out of hand, burying into the sands below.  Scott laughs in delight, raising his shield, just as Derek swings his gladius, metal meeting word with a sharp crack.

Derek jumps back just as Scott spins, kicking out his leg.  "Seems I underestimated you."  He calls out, "you are ready."

"You are without blade, do you surrender?"  Derek offers with a grin, knowing full well Scott's answer.

"You jest.  This is the most entertained I've been in months!"

"Remember my offer when I knock you on your arse."  Derek laughs, twirling his blade.

"Not if I knock you over first!"  Scott shouts playfully, launching his shield at Derek with a well aimed throw.  It slams into his wrist, stunning his hand so he drops his blade off the platform.  The next thing he knows, Scott has his arms wrapped around his waist, knocking the both of them off their feet.

Derek wraps his thighs around Scott's waist, flipping their positions, wrestling him until he lies beneath, forearm tight against Scott's throat,  "Surrender?"  Derek repeats.  Scott spits in his face and Derek jerks back in surprise, forearm loosening enough for Scott to have words.

"Never,"  Scott smirks, bringing his head forward and slamming it against Derek's hard enough for him to see stars.  Derek grunts in pain, scrambling for purchase against Scott's wriggling form.  The frantic movements make the wood groans in protest, weak after previous fighting, and their only warning of incoming trouble is a sharp splintering sound before the platform gives out beneath them, sending them careening to the earth.   

Derek tucks and rolls out of the way of the debris, and thankfully only ends up with a sharp pain along his bicep.  A quick look around assures Scott is just as well off, the man lies on his back laughing up to the heavens.  Derek cannot blame him, he would do the same if he wasn't tucked in a small ball.

That was entertaining.

"Draw!"  The Doctore shouts with an accompanying snap of his whip, humour in his voice.  He helps Scott up while Derek rolls to his feet.  Checking his arm, he finds only a minor cut.

Scott walks over to him with a slight limp in his step and a bright smile on his mouth.  Clasping hands with Derek, he pulls him close enough for their shoulders to touch.  "I am glad to call you brother," he whispers in Derek's ear, letting go with a pat to his back.

After being passed around the group of gladiators, offered a combination of congratulations, shoulder punches, and deadly glares, Derek glances up at the balcony. 

Gerard leans against the hand rail, a grimace twisting his mouth, but beside him Stiles stands with a radiant smile decorating his face.  He nods his head discretely at Derek in congratulation, and Derek finds himself smiling back.

That night, Derek kneels in the dirt with his arm placed upon a stone table, the Doctore stands in front of him by a blazing fire, while Gerard stands to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, tapping his foot impatiently.  Stiles waits at Gerard's back, a familiar jug of wine in hand. 

The Doctore crouches so he is at eye level with Derek, "Just as the Romans salted the earth of Carthage, they will beat you down, stretch you thin, force you kill your brothers for sport.  Even then, you cannot raise a hand against your Dominus.  Such is the life of the gladiator.  Do you swear your sword to the arena?"

Derek nods his head, "I swear."

"Do you swear to fight for your Dominus?"

Derek grits his teeth, eyes wandering until they meet Stiles, who smiles, offering encouragement,  "I swear.  I swear my sword to the Argent _household_."  Derek says, choosing his words carefully.  The gods are cruel to those who break oaths, but slaves are considered part of the household.  Derek is glad to swear his blade to Stiles, should he so need it.

The Doctore laughs under his breath, catching exactly what Derek meant by his words, but he says nothing, instead he reaches into the fire with a leather gloved hand and pulls out a branding iron, a yellow _A_ glowing at its tip.  Two waiting guard step forward to hold down Derek, one at his shoulders, the other gripping his hand and elbow, pressing him into the stone.

The Doctore wedges a leather bit into his mouth.  Just as Derek bites down, testing it, the Doctore places the burning brand against his skin.  Derek screams in agony, muffled by the bit.  He smells his flesh rend, smoke rising to the night sky, but as soon as it began the brand is removed, and cold well water is thrown over his forearm, soothing the burn.

Derek stares down at the red, irritated skin, the cursive _A_ marking him as a gladiator.  It's a blemish upon his skin, one he won't ever be able to remove.  Derek closes his eyes, squeezing his fist shut, as Scott's mother, and the medicus of the ludus, spreads a cooling ointment over the burn, wrapping it with linen. 

Derek has finally been marked as property of those who orchestrated his kin's downfall.  He wants to grab hold of the blade of a nearby soldier and run it through his traitorous heart, but when a soft hand grips his shoulder, pulling him to his feet, Derek finds himself blinking his eyes open, only to stare into Stiles'. 

"The Dominus said I should help you to your room."  Stiles pulls Derek's arm over his shoulder, a hand around his waist.

"Thank you,"  Derek sighs, all thoughts but a burning desire for rest leaving his mind.

***

The brand takes a fortnight to fully heal. 

For the first week Derek cannot even hold a sword without wincing.  The second week he practices.  And practices.  And practices some more.  His first battle in the arena has already been decided.  He is to execute a traitor of the Republic.  Normally, a gladiator would find it an easy task.  Traitors are snivelling Roman men who've abused the office they held, extorting from the Republic's coffers, or giving coin and support to enemies for personal advancement.

Derek is simply being cautious, he cannot imagine Gerard sending him forth into the arena to plunge his sword into a defenceless old man.  The traitor he is most likely set to face is a soldier, a man of experience who is likely to present a challenge.

A man like Derek.

So he practices, swinging blade against post until it is hacked to bits and he is fast enough on his feet, even while wearing the traditional leg greaves.  The Doctore spars with him often, correcting misplaced footing, and teaching him techniques so he won't lose his head without a fight.

Derek is to dress as a Murmillo, a gladiator representing the Roman legion, gladius in one hand, rectangular shield in the other.  Gerard's way of mocking what Derek should have eventually become:  a Roman commander.

One afternoon, after Derek subtly watched Stiles eat at Scott's table during breakfast, smiling down into his gruel whenever the man would throw his head back in full bodied laughter, Derek is called forth by the Doctore, to spar.

The stand opposite each other, circling like vultures.  The Doctore makes the first move, but Derek parries his strike with a clang.

"You improve."  The Doctore nods his head in approval.

"Because of your tuition."  Derek says, sweeping his legs, but the Doctore steps over them easily.

"And your intentions towards my son?"  the Doctore asks, abruptly swinging his sword.  Derek raises his shield just in time.

"You son?"  Derek pants in exertion.  "I know not of your son."

"You seem to know him well enough, for your eyes follow him when he is in your presence."

Derek dives, avoiding the slashing blade.  "Stiles.  Stiles is you son." 

"My one and only."

"Shit."

The Doctore chuckles, "Shit, indeed."

"Apologies."

"Why?  Do you have less than honourable intentions?"

"No, never.  I intend... I want..."  Derek sighs.  "I desire only his happiness, I want to see that blinding smile grace his face, to hear his laugh, so sweet like nectar from the gods."

John smirks.  "Good answer.  After all, a father only wants the best for his son.  Prove yourself in the arena and I will grant my blessing onto your courtship."

"You misunderstand,"  Derek shakes his head,  "he does not want me."

The Doctore laughs,  "I know my son."  He says, just before sweeping Derek's legs out from under him.

The day of his first battle dawns and he is sent to the ludus' baths where house slaves oil and scrape his skin free of dirt, strigils digging just on the side of painful.  A pumice stone is rubbed along his chest and a knife drawn across his face in quick swipes, finally ridding him of the dark black hair coating his body after weeks of neglect. 

Olive oil is massaged into his muscles after a long soak in the warm water, chasing away any remaining stiffness from practice.  Thankfully, the brand on his arm no longer pains, but the puckered skin still tugs uncomfortably whenever the skin is stretched, the oil helps somewhat. 

A slave with soft hands helps dress him in his armour:  a leather belt with bronze decorations protects his belly from a disembowelling strike.  A arm guard with metal hammered to look like feathers protects his right sword arm, while a massive shield protects his left.  Finally, shin protectors are strapped to his legs, heavy, but Derek is used to them by now.

He leaves the baths, armour clinking as he walks, only to find the Doctore waiting for him by the gates, a simple bronze gladius in hand.

"This will be your blade in the arena."  He says, handing the sword over.  Derek takes it, holding it up to the light, the metal shining on a recently sharpened edge, "Use it well." 

Moving closer, he leans in to whisper in Derek's ear, "Do not let what you find in the arena distract you from the task at hand, I'd hate for all the time I've invested in your training to go to waste." 

Derek frowns.  Is he to fight someone he knows?

The Doctore steps aside, letting Derek pass through the gate. 

He ponders the Doctore's words as he is led to the waiting cart set to take him to the arena.  Derek knows of none but his family accused of being traitors to the Republic, and Derek's whole family is dead. 

_Aren't they?_

***                                                                                                          

The thundering roar of the crowd is clearly audible, even through walls of stone and dirt separating Derek from the light of day.  He sits on a cold stone bench underground, a guard by his side while he waits for the signal summoning him to the surface.

Ever since the Doctore's parting words sent his mind spinning, Derek thinks of that night in his family's villa, going over all the details he remembers, no matter how miniscule.  Every single man, woman, or child, possessing the name Hale was slaughtered that fateful night, everyone but him.  At least that's what the guards told him. 

In reality, he only saw five people he held close to his heart slaughtered:  his mother, father, Cora, Laura, and Laura's son.  Peter was missing from the bloodbath.

A bell clangs, signifying that he is meant to ascend and wait by the gates.  On the way, Derek tries to remember if he even saw Peter at dinner that night, but his mind keeps drawing a blank. 

As he waits by the massive gates, he squints out into the vast area immediately spotting the figure waiting in the center dressed in only a ragged tunic, sword and shield in hand.  The figure is too far away for Derek to accurately identify him, but if the man is Peter, he is only a ghost of what his uncle was, starved and stooped over in resignation.

The gate creaks, rising, and the crowd roars as Derek strides into the arena, helmet still in hand, towards the figure with long, mangy hair hiding his face from view.

As if the man senses that the gladiator set to execute him draws near, he raises his head, hair parting like a curtain to reveal the face of his uncle.

"Derek,"  Peter greets, "what a lovely surprise."

"Peter."  Derek breaths, gritting his teeth.  His mind is already calculating their exit routes if he grabs his uncle and makes a run for it, but guards are stationed throughout the arena and the gate is already lowering. 

Peter sighs with his whole body, his once strong shoulders, thin and desiccated from starvation and abuse, creak with him.  "Don't bother, Derek."  He says.  "You don't even know what I have done."

"You did nothing."  Derek whispers harshly, "It was the Argents, they conspired and brought our family to ruin."  

Peter chuckles, only to break out into a rheumy cough. 

The crowd's volume lowers, signifying that the games' officiant has raised his arms, commanding silence.  Gerard's voice rings loud and clear through the arena as he stands in his box.  Kate sits nearby wearing a delighted smirk, twirling an ironed curl of the blond wig she wears. 

She speaks to the woman beside her, probably explaining what Derek's relationship is to the man he is set to execute, because Stiles wears a face of such blatant horror it's a wonder none have called him out on it. 

"Citizens of Rome!"  Gerard exclaims.  "Today we gather today to witness the execution of a man who has done the Republic grievous injury:  the former Praetor, Peter Hale!"  The crowd heckles and jeers, throwing food down from the stands.  "Plotting with devious kin, Peter Hale stole coin from the coffers of Rome herself, intent on organizing an expedition into Germania, sure to fail as all previous have done, simply so he might steal the position of Imperator using cunning and subterfuge."

"Lies."  Derek hisses, but only Peter can hear, "all words spilling from that snake tongue are lies."

"He speaks the truth,"  Peter says, surprising Derek,  "A truth where he omitted his own involvement, but truth nonetheless."

"What are you saying?"  Derek gapes.

"I'm saying that four moons ago, Gerard Argent met with me in the streets of Rome and we plotted to rearrange the allocatement of funds from silly building projects in already conquered territories to more fruitful endeavours."

"The war in Germania."

Peter nods.  "Exactly."

Derek narrows his eyes, "We are losing that war." 

Peter growls.  "Because Rome was withdrawing.  In only a few more years we could have had access to prime wheat growing territory.  Enough food to feed the Republic ten times over, but withdrawing would leave us with staggering causalities and nothing to show for it.  What else could I do?"

"What happened?"  Derek asks quietly.

Peter shows his teeth, "Gerard betrayed me, showing his true colours.  He cares not for the war,  nor for the good of the Republic, only for his own position.  The only way he could ascend higher was if our family was cast into ruin."

"So he had us slaughtered, and kept me alive for the sole purpose of executing you."  Derek closes his eyes,  "I suppose he's telling all the patrician families I volunteered to become a gladiator to make up for what my kin has done.  To them, I am here willingly to execute you, criminalizing me even further as a kin murderer."

"Isn't it funny?"  Peter shoulders shake as he laughs, tears streaming down his face.  "When they brought me in and told me our family was dead, I still thought Gerard had not betrayed me.  It wasn't until he marched into my cell and told me what he had done that I knew the truth.  I have ruined us, Derek.  I have ruined us all."

"Peter..." Derek reaches a hand out for his uncle, but the man shakes his head.

Placing his sword and shield on the ground, Peter falls to his knees in the sand, submitting.  "No, I deserve this, make it quick."  Peter tilts his neck, offering his throat.

"No, stand up."  Derek growls  "I won't kill an unarmed man, fight me.  Think of it as repentance for what you have done."

"Derek..."

"Fight me!"  Derek shouts and the crowd howls, screaming and stomping and raising a din loud enough for Jupiter to hear it from the heavens.  "Fight me, _please_."  He whispers for Peter's ears only.  "It is the only way I can bear to kill you."

Peter stares into Derek's eyes for a long moment before closing his eyes in acquiescence.  He picks up his sword and shield and the crowd goes mad, before Gerard once again raises his arms for silence.

"Today, Peter Hale will be executed by repentant nephew, Derek, a man who knew of the plot but eventually turned from traitorous kin, exposing their deviations.  He has since volunteered to take Peter's vile life."  The crowd is a mix of jeers and applause, glad that Derek is loyal to the Republic, but hateful that he betrayed the sacred bond of kin.

"Today, Hale blood will be spilt in the arena, and the gods will rejoice!  Begin!"  Gerard shouts and Derek slides on his helmet.  The horns sound, filling the arena with their heavy brass, proclaiming the start to the games.

Peter slides into position, his legs wavering weakly, and Derek cannot help but hate how easy this is will be.  His uncle deserves an honourable death, as a soldier who has served the Republic his entire life, not an execution where he can barely defend himself.  There is no honour in blood spilt easily.

Peter lunges, thrusting his sword, but Derek parries with a light swipe, side stepping calmly as he circles around his uncle's form.  The man may be weak, but he is not without skill.

Peter feints to the right, but moves left, approaching Derek's unarmed back.  Derek is too late to block, and Peter swings the blade, but it cuts shallow, not fatal as it should have. 

"What are you doing?"  Derek questions, furious.  Peter had his chance but he wasted it.

"What do you think will happen when I kill you, nephew?"  Peter mocks, "Will they let me go then?  No, they'll just send another to finish the job.  At least with my death you might live another day, but that does not mean I cannot give them a fucking show!"  Peter shouts and Derek meets the swing of his sword, sparks spraying the sand as metal bites against metal until Peter swings his shield, bashing Derek's sword arm and their blades break deadly embrace.

Derek stumbles back, clutching his shoulder in pain.  "Peter!"  Derek roars, dropping his shield and freeing himself from its excess weight, just as he rolls out of the way of Peter's thrust. 

Derek finds himself with an opportunity to end things and he takes it, slicing across the backs of Peter's knees, severing his tendons so his legs can no longer take the weight of his body.  Derek rises and places the tip of his blade against the back of Peter's neck as he falls to his knees. 

The crowd clamours, crying for Derek to pull his head back and run his blade across his uncle's neck.  But Derek doesn't, he waits.  Waits for Peter to get up again, while knowing full well he never will again.  Waits for Peter to raises his two fingers, begging missio, even when prisoners sent to be executed in the arena are not permitted to ask to be spared.

"Peter..."  Derek begs, for what?  He does not know. "Please, Peter, please."  _Get up_.

He feels a vibration, the trembling of his sword as Peter laughs humourlessly.  "They took my family, they took my honour.  They will _not_ have your name stained with my blood.  Kill them all for us, Derek.  Avenge us."  Peter urges just before he turns his own blade on himself, thrusting it into his throat and severing his spine. 

In one extended moment, Derek watches as his uncle crumples to the dust, dead.

He drops his sword in shock, falling to his knees beside the body, hand shaking as he reaches for Peter's still shoulder, deaf to the roaring of the crowd, chanting his name over and over.  Derek turns his uncle on his back finding eyes wide open in death. 

A single tear trails down Derek's cheek and he closes his uncle's eyes for the final time, sending a quick prayer to the three Cretans Brother-Kings, begging them to judge Peter not by his faults but his strengths, asking that they grant him entrance into the Elysian Fields.  A honourable afterlife for an honourable warrior.

Only when Derek finishes his prayer does he rise to his feet. 

Rose petals descend from the crowd and Derek swipes them from his hair, striding from the arena and leaving them in his wake.  They blemish the pure, creamy sand like the blood still weakly pumping from Peter's throat.

Derek longs for the day when the sands of the ludus are similarly dotted with Argent blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check tags for updated warnings and watch out for an especially nasty Kate Argent. Seriously, stuff gets gnarly. On a happier note, I made some art of gladiator Derek, so enjoy that :)

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/134199510917/art-for-twist-tied-at-the-feet-meh-im-feeling)

 

***

Derek throws himself into honing the gladiatorial craft.  Sparring with Boyd, until even the farmer who once worked long days in the field, begs for reprieve.  He is relentless, ignoring Scott's words when the champion himself says Derek is working himself to pieces.

It's like a floodgate has opened.  Derek fights in the arena with single minded purpose, to win, always win.  He disconnects himself from the slaughter, cutting down gladiator and escaped slave alike like it is nothing. 

Derek _must_ be ruthless because he is going to kill Gerard Argent.  He is going to slit that man's throat, and when all is said and done, run a blade across his own. 

He cannot afford to feel, because he cannot afford to love.  The moment Derek loves, is the moment his plan is worthless.

 _If one single slave kills his master, the whole household will be put to death_.

Derek cannot afford to love, but his errant heart has other intentions. 

 _Stiles_. 

Stiles with his soft brown hair, wide expressive eyes, and lips like the softest silk.  Derek's heart beats at a staccato whenever the man draws near.  His face floods with blood if Stiles even smiles in his general direction.  If Stiles yet _touches_ him in congratulations after a good battle in the arena, it is as if a choir of cherubs strike an arrow through his chest.

Derek is in love with Stiles. 

Stiles who will die because of Derek's desire for revenge.  He will die, and nightmares of a dirty-handed soldier hammering rusted nails into Stiles' wrists and feet, crucifying him, keeps Derek wide awake at night. 

He tosses and turns in his cot as vivid dreams sent from the gods themselves chase any form of sleep from his errant mind.  It must be punishment for his plan to orchestrate the deaths of so many innocents in return for revenge.  For fulfillment of Peter's last wishes.

 _Gods_ , he does not know what he is to do.

***

Derek is summoned to the villa.  He waits as he has done before, by the fountain, hands and feet bound. 

Gerard strides into the room, a man Derek recognizes as a fellow Lanista moves at his side.  A sharp thought stops his heart in his chest.  Is he to be sold?

Panic gallops through his mind, plans and plots flying out of his grasp faster than they were made.  But all thoughts stop when Stiles walks into the room only a second later.

A sharp bruise blooms along the right ride of his face and his lip is split, sewn back together with thread.  Fury suddenly consumes him and his eyes narrow as Gerard beckons Stiles to step closer.

The man touches Stiles' face with undeserving hands, thumb running across the red line splitting his lip in two.  "I regret this,"  Gerard says with a sigh, "not because the boy didn't deserve it, but because now I have to look at it.  The medicus said I shouldn't have makeup put on him because it would make it worse, but I am tempted.  The boy is a sore sight.  He once was so beautiful, look..." 

Gerard waves the other Lanista closer.  Reaching for a simple strap of fabric, the only thing keeping Stiles' body from exposure to their gaze, he unties it and the whole tunic slips off Stiles like water, sliding down his body and pooling at his feet. 

 Derek clenches his hands in fists at the expression of such desperate vulnerability clouding Stiles' face, like he's trying so hard to keep his hands pinned to his side, dying to cover his modesty.  "Look at his cock.  Isn't it beautiful?"  Derek refuses to look as Gerard and the Lanista stare openly, instead he locks eyes firmly with Stiles, offering some semblance of comfort. 

The Lanista shifts, closing his fan with a snap, moving it down where Derek's gaze refuse to go.  When Stiles' eyes shut, lips twisting in dismay, Derek knows exactly what the Lanista is doing with the fan.  "He's untouched."  Gerard remarks slyly.  "I've been saving him."

"Oh?"  The Lanista raises a brow.

Gerard cups the back of Stiles' neck, thumb smearing over Stiles' bruised cheek until he winces in pain.  "He's worth much to me.  His deflowering would be a spectacle worthy of a senatorial audience.  In fact, I've decided it will be the highlight of my next party."  At those words, Stiles' eyes snap open in horror.

"A worthy exhibition, but no Roman would fuck with such an audience, not with the fear of performing poorly hanging over their heads."

"Hmm, you are right."  Gerard taps a gnarled finger over his lips, his eyes shift to Derek.  He looks down quickly, but when footsteps draw near, Derek knows he was caught.

"Do you like what you see?"  A finger touches the underside of his chin, and Derek looks up.  He says nothing, schooling his face into a mask of impassivity.

"I can always award the pleasure to another,"  Gerard threatens,  "the champion perhaps?  After all, he's requested Stiles' presence enough, he must harbour desire.  Or maybe Ennis?  He is proving himself a strong contender for championship..."  Derek's eyes widen and a sharp gasp draws his attention to Stiles looking like he would rather die than have Ennis or Scott touch him that way.

Derek is faced with a tough decision, he can take Gerard's offer to have Stiles for one night, or he can refuse.   By refusing, someone else would be ordered to deflower Stiles, and they might not be as gentle as Derek.  Squeezing his eyes shut, he makes his choice. 

He would rather Stiles never speak to him again, than allow a gladiator, rough with calloused hands, to hurt Stiles irreparably.  Fucking Stiles like he would a whore with years of experience. 

"I like what I see."  Derek opens his eyes, but refuses to look at Stiles where he no doubt wears an expression of righteous betrayal.

Gerard smirks cruelly, leaning closer.  "Good, and if my daughter is right.  You should give us a show."  Derek's mouth falls open.  "What?  Did you think I did not know?"  He whispers in Derek's ear.  "I _instructed_ her to sleep with you.  Her last husband's seed wouldn't take and I hoped yours would.  I need an heir, yet Christopher refuses to remarry and his bleeding heart would send the family to ruin.  But with Allison's marriage to the Lahey boy, a heir will soon be born to them, and I pray to the gods every day that it will be a healthy boy."

When the implications of what Gerard is saying clicks, Derek's heart stops in his chest.

"How does it feel, Derek?  To know your impotence is the reason your family is dead?  If only you got my daughter with child...  You would have been honour bound to marry her and the Argent name would have been raised in status.  But you couldn't even do that, so I no longer needed you or your family, not when I could simply declare you all traitors and take your father's Senatorial position out from under his stone cold-" 

"Gerard?"  The other Lanista calls, interrupting them.  "I wish to see the ludus, I hear great things about your Doctore."

Gerard smirks at Derek one last time before walking away.

Derek's head falls to his chest, heart beating dangerously fast as he stares at the shackles bolted tight around his wrists.

"Are you okay?"  Stiles asks, "Did he say something to hurt you?"

"Shouldn't you be following him?"  Derek grunts, nodding after Gerard.

"He told me to get my repulsive face out of his sight."

Derek turns his head to Stiles, staring at his bruised, pale face.  "You aren't repulsive, you're beautiful."

"Gratitude."  Stiles sighs, finger poking lightly at his lip.

"Don't you have work that needs doing?"  Derek shifts, moving to return to the ludus.

"Are you going to kill him?"  Stiles whispers, words freezing Derek where he stands, heart clenching.  

"What...?"  Derek breathes. 

"Are you going to kill Gerard?"  Stiles repeats, his face unreadable as he walks even closer so they stand only a hands width apart.

"What makes you think that?"

"The way you look at him, like you're barely restraining yourself from separating his head from shoulders."

Derek licks his lips nervously.

"You are."  Stiles says, reading Derek's tells, a hint of resignation in his tone.  "You're Roman, so you must know of the laws that dictate what happens to a household of slaves when their master is killed by one, and yet you still desire his death by your hands."

"I..."

"They will crucify us.  Every man, woman, and child enslaved under this roof.  You would murder us all?"

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, Stiles words are like a sharpened knife cutting deep.

"You swore an oath to protect this household-"

"I swore an oath to the Republic,"  Derek hisses, interrupting Stiles, "and the Republic turned against me.  I swore an oath to my family, to protect them, now look what happened to them.  It is all because of Gerard.  I am _owed_ my justified revenge."

Stiles nods sharply, his lips pursed together.  Staring into Derek's eyes, he says, "then you are no better than him."

Long after Stiles leaves, Derek remains.  Staring after the ghost of his form and the heavy words it left behind.  Derek remains until a guard collects him, taking him back to the ludus. 

He thinks about every single oath he swore.  Promises he promised.  Pledges he took.  It was all for his family, his lineage.  But now, he is all there is left.  His revenge is not for the sake of his mother, his father, his sisters, his nephew.  It is for himself, for his honour.  To make himself feel better for a few seconds as Gerard's life blood coats his hands.

But it won't only be Gerard's blood on his hands. 

In the end, it comes down to two simple questions.  Is his revenge worth the lives of just over twenty men, women, and children?  And can he die knowing that the satisfaction he feels is drenched in the blood of the innocents?

Derek doesn't think he can. 

He can't do this.  He cannot sentence these people.

But, then where does that leave him?

***

"I cannot do it."  Derek says, moving to sit opposite Stiles at his and Scott's table. 

Stiles doesn't even put down his spoonful of gruel.  Or look at Derek.  Scott glances between them, his eyebrows raised in question, but Derek shakes his head, wordlessly pleading that Scott not ask.  He nods in acquiescence.

"I'm sorry,"  Derek continues.  "I don't know what I was thinking."

 _That_ seems to get something out of Stiles because he drops his spoon back in the gruel, wiping the back of his hand across his still healing mouth.  "Fuck off, you're ruining my appetite."

"For philosophical gruel?"  Derek jokes, remembering their conversation about Aristotle, but Stiles sends him a glare full of potent venom. 

Derek swallows heavily, throat bobbing.  " _I'm sorry_."  He pleads, reaching out to touch his fingers to the back of Stiles' hand, put the man jerks away before contact is made.

"Like I said, _fuck off_."

Derek blinks away the desperate moisture forming in the corners of his eyes.  Rising to his feet, he opens and closes his mouth a few times.  Not knowing how he can make this better, Derek leaves.

He's turning the corner when a hand grabs his elbow.

"I don't know what happened between you two,"  Scott begins,  "but Stiles will come around.  He would do _anything_ for his friends, and I'm sure he counts you among them." 

Derek doesn't know how he's supposed to explain to Scott without sounding evil and heartless, that only a week ago he was ready to sentence to death everyone Stiles loves on this Earth.  Before he can say anything, Scott smiles reassuringly and pats Derek on the back, leaving and returning to Stiles.

***

Derek does what any Roman would do when trying to win back a broken friendship.  He seeks to buy it.

He waits for Jackson by the entrance gate to the ludus, the coin from every battle he's won in the arena folded into the lining of his loincloth. 

He leans casually against the entrance while the men spar.  Boyd learns faster under the Doctore's guidance, then Derek did after years of instruction from Roman teachers.  Stiles' father is a gifted teacher, the man should not be a slave but a paid military tutor.  His has an eye for strategy that would translate all too well into a battle situation. 

Derek startles when the gate slams open, Stiles running through, followed by a disgruntled guard.

"Scott!  Scotty!"  Stiles calls out, making a beeline for his friend who drops his practice blade, meeting Stiles halfway.  He grips Stiles by the arms, looking him over.

"Are you hurt?  What's happening?"  Scott asks, worried.

Stiles' face splits into a wide grin,  "Lydia's back from Capua!"

Derek tunes out the rest of their conversation as another gladiator moves to fetch water out of the barrel beside Derek.

"Who's Lydia?"  Derek leans over, casually asking the man.

The gladiator takes a sip of the water, licking parched lips.  "The Dominus' ward and a member of the esteemed Martin family.  But while the Martin's reside in Rome, Lydia does not on account of her _proclivities_."

"What _proclivities_?"

The man snorts like it is a well know source of gossip around the ludus.  "Her father wanted to marry her off, but she refused and said she was married to geometry."

Derek raises his brow, "And they exiled her for that?"

The gladiator shrugs, "Patrician families.  They have a child who doesn't fit their mould, they cast them aside and make another."

Considering Derek used to belong to a Patrician family he should feel insulted, but not all families are like his were.  Roman women are allowed an education, they just cannot ever use it.  After marriage they are expected to be mothers and matrons.  And if they aren't mothers and matrons, they aren't good Roman women.

When Laura married her first husband, it was a political alliance negotiated by their father.  But when Laura said her husband refused to allow her to purchase scrolls or lessons to further her education, their father quickly condoned a divorce.  Even though Laura was five months pregnant.

Derek wonders what Laura's old husband thinks about the death of his first born child.  Considering he disowned his son after the divorce, Derek figures the heartless man couldn't care less.

"The boy looks happy,"  someone whispers in his ear and Derek whips around to see Jackson standing with his arms crossed as a cocky smile consumes his face.  His eyes are fixed on Stiles.

The gladiator Derek was speaking with takes one distasteful look at Jackson and spits at the dust near his feet, walking away without even a glance back.

"Popular aren't you?"  Derek chuckles as Jackson makes a sour expression. 

"I told you I wasn't."

"Well, today you are getting your first customer, congratulations."  Derek smirks, turning so his back shields them from prying eyes.  He does not want a guard getting wind of their conversation. 

Jackson visibly brightens,  "Oh?  Who is it?"

"Me."

"You?"  Jackson scoffs, "What could _you_ possibly want."

This was the only part of the plan Derek was confused by.  What could Stiles possibly want?  He spent days pondering a decision and in the end he decided on something simple.  Something anyone would want, man or woman.

"Jewellery, a necklace to be precise.  An amber necklace."

"Amber,"  Jackson laughs, "That will cost you _all_ your winnings in the arena so far."

"I have the coin."

Jackson cocks his head to the side, "Now why would you need an amber necklace?  You've never bought a whore before so it's not like you're trying to win one's favour, unless..."  He trails off, eyes widening as he stares over Derek's shoulder where Stiles stands talking with Scott.

Derek swallows heavily, rushing to distract Jackson,  "It's for the gods.  A sacrifice to the gods asking for my family's safe passage to the afterlife.  I intend to burn it."

"Shame,"  Jackson remarks, his eyes shifting back to Derek's looking like he doesn't believe a word Derek is saying, "To waste such beauty on the dead, don't you think?"

"They are the worthy dead,"  Derek's eyes narrow, "so I don't think-"

"Derek!"  Scott claps him on the shoulder, cutting into the conversation, "Come on, we should train.   Stiles is staying for supper, he wants to watch."

"He does?"  Derek asks, hope flooding his chest.

"Well, he specifically said he wants me to 'kick your ass far into the sky so you fall as Icarus once did."

"Derek."  Jackson interrupts, holding out his hand, "I'll get it for you."

Derek nods dejectedly, unravelling the coins from his loincloth, and depositing the money in Jackson's hand.  He counts them quickly and nods once before disappearing outside the gate.

"What was that?"  Scott questions, eyes narrowed as he glares at Jackson's back,  "Why are you giving money to that lizard?"

"He's buying something for me."  Derek says dismissively.

Scott's questioning eyes clear, "Ah, something to get back in Stiles' favour?"

Derek nods, not wanting to give away more than he should.

Scott chuckles, "I hope you at least asked him for something useful."

Derek furrows his brow, "By useful, you mean..."

Scott laughs bodily, wagging his finger, "That's for me to know and you to find out."

Derek's lip dips in displeasure and his crosses his arms but Scott just claps him on the back.

"Come now, erase that sour look from your face.  You never know, you might be able to best me this time."

A little while later, Derek lies on his back looking up the length of the gladius pressed to his throat while Scott chuckles,  "Well, at least you tried."

Derek rolls his eyes.  Admitting defeat, he collapses fully back into the dust.  He swears he hears Stiles' distinctive snicker.

***

The necklace Jackson unwraps is gorgeous.  A long waxed cord that would stretch all the way to Stiles' belly holds about fifty round pieces of low grade amber, spaced intermittently along the string.  It is cheap, but beautiful.  Even though the amber isn't a clear light yellow, the dark spots and the brownish orange of the stones remind him so much of Stiles' eyes, it takes his breath away.

"Well?"  Jackson asks, his toe tapping in impatience.

Derek simply nods, taking the necklace and wrapping it away before tucking it into his loincloth.  "You have good taste."

Jackson huffs, "My mother taught me everything she knew."

Derek tilts his head to the side, "Was she a jeweller?"

Jackson laughs, unamused, "No, an expensive whore."

"Ah."

Sometimes when Derek is alone in his room at night, he likes to unwrap the necklace and finger the smooth beads, thinking about the expression Stiles would make when he sees it.  How Stiles would look wearing it in the sunlight of the ludus, the amber glinting beautifully, yet still inferior to Stiles' own eyes.

By giving him the necklace, Derek isn't expecting Stiles to run into his arms and declare his unending affection.  He simply wants them to return to the way they were before.  Friends, tentative no doubt, but friends nonetheless. 

Out of all the reactions to the necklace he could have gotten, the one he received did not even cross his mind.

Stiles holds the necklace between his forefinger and thumb like it is shit strung on a string.

"What the hell is this?"  Stiles asks with a distasteful expression.

Derek shuffles awkwardly, scratching at the stubble steadily growing on his face, he's due in for a shave next morning, thankfully.  "It matches your eyes."  Derek explains weakly.

Stiles purses his lips, "What am I supposed to do with it?  It's not like I can wear it without the Dominus asking who gave it to me."  He shakes the necklace, the beads clicking,  "This can only end with your crucifixion, you realize that?" 

Derek swallows heavily and licks his lips nervously, he honestly never thought about that.  "I thought you could hide it and look at it sometimes, to remind you of me?"

Stiles scoffs, and Derek's heart sinks,  "It is but a useless bauble, next time get me something I can actually use."  He says, before running happily after Scott, leaving Derek behind, standing in the hallway like he didn't just reject his gift and offer of friendship.

Although, Stiles did say _next time_.  Meaning that so long as Derek finds him something _useful_ , there is still hope of reconciliation.                                                                                                                                                                             

He hopes they can be reconciled because the day of Gerard's party draws near, and Derek can think of absolutely nothing worse than being forced to fuck Stiles while the man still holds contempt for him.  Not when fucking Stiles without his express permission  is worse enough. 

Derek has never associated sex with pleasure, only fear and disillusionment.  Something that has always been forced upon him.  Even if Stiles does grow to feel for Derek the way Derek feels for him, he doesn't think he's ready to jump right into a carnal relationship.  The memories of Kate's cold hands, her perfumed wigs, her carmine stained fingers haunt him even when he takes himself in hand.

She has spoiled so much and ruined him so terribly. 

Now Gerard seeks to further blemish his feelings for Stiles by giving Derek another thing to feel guilty over.  Yet another way for him to hate the thought of sex.  After that damned party Derek will forever associate sex with fucking the _unwilling_ man he loves.

***

The day before Gerard's party, Derek is a ball of nerves.  He is not allowed to train today or the next, Gerard wants him free from wounds or cuts, anything to distract from the look of his body. 

He is made to sit by the sidelines as Boyd spars with Scott, matching him blow for blow until Scott twists around like a snake, placing his blade against the back of Boyd's neck.  Boyd sighs in frustration, but Scott reassures him, bumping shoulders and saying he will improve.  Derek cannot help but agree, Boyd is shaping up to be a solid contender for the title of champion, and maybe in a few years he will surpass Scott.  If he survives that long.

"Derek, you're wanted in the villa."

Derek turns to the owner of the voice, only to see Jackson.  He rises from his perch, meeting the man halfway.

"I thought the party was tomorrow?"  He worries at his lip, Derek thought he would have more time.  More time to find Stiles and talk.  They must talk, it's the only way the both of them are going to emerge from this without a shattered relationship.

"The lady wishes words."  

Apprehension runs through his body as Jackson leads him up to the villa.  Kate, it must be Kate summoning him.  Derek knows Gerard has kept her from him, not wanting her to sleep with Derek and get with his child now.  Gerard must be away in preparation for tomorrow, so she is taking her chance.  He has to swallow down anything she might say or do, lest his temper kills them all.

Thankfully Jackson must sense something pensive in Derek's manner because he does not bother him anymore than he should, simply leads him to the same place beside the fountain, leaving him be with a guard who shackles his legs and arms the same as before.

He eyes the doorway expecting Kate to emerge at any moment.  It comes at a shock when instead a woman with red hair walks through.  Stiles beside her, not behind. 

When Stiles sees him, his eyes widen and he turns to the woman, whispering furiously in her ear, but she just pushes Stiles towards Derek saying, "Talk to him, I've bought you some time whilst Gerard is out."

Stiles stumbles forward, his eyes growing fearful when he looks at Derek, seemingly remembering what is set to happen tomorrow.

"I won't hurt you, I've said this many times before."  Derek tries to inject reassurance into his voice.

"It's not you I fear."  Stiles' eyes shift to him before quickly looking away towards the red haired woman.

"Who is she?"  Derek whispers, and she must hear because she answers instead of Stiles.

"Lydia Martin, I've heard much about you from Stiles, Derek _Hale_."

Derek blinks.  No one has addressed him by his family's name in months, not since the night they were murdered.  "What do you want?"  He asks cautiously.

She rolls her eyes, "I want you to hurry up and speak with Stiles before Gerard returns from town, I know what he intends for the both of you tomorrow.  You must have words beforehand."

"Thank you."  Derek says honestly.

"It is not you I do it for."  She turns to Stiles, smiling softly and fond, "Make it quick."

Stiles slowly walks forward.  Kneeling down in front of Derek, he reaches a hand out to awkwardly rest on Derek's forearm when the brand stains.  Looking up from under his eyelashes he says, "I'm scared."

Derek shifts, and the chain rattle as he reaches for Stiles', hoping to give the man some modicum of comfort, anything to erase the vulnerability from his expression.

"I don't want people to watch as I am joined to you, it repulses me."

Derek squeezes Stiles' fingers but the man makes a noise of frustration.  "I know you find my touch repulsive, but I will be as gentle as possible, I will not harm you."

"You don't understand."  Stiles hisses, abruptly pulling his hand from Derek's, leaving him cold and wanting.

Derek continues, not understanding what Stiles is trying to say, "I had to volunteer.  Ennis is not a gentle man.  When he buys whores, I can hear their screams from my cell.  He would take you harshly."    

Stiles makes a sound of frustration, "You misunderstand, I am not angry because of your decision.  I am angry because this will sully a moment meant to be sacred."

Derek's breath catches in his throat at Stiles' words, "You mean..."  he swallows, unable to continue, waiting for Stiles to say the words.

"I want our first night together to be unwitnessed by prying eyes."

"I thought you hated me?"  Derek murmurs, a trace of happiness creeping into his tone.

"I do, I absolutely hate you."  Stiles groans, running his hand through his hair,  "I hate that you were born Roman, I hate that you think you are so much better than the rest of us."  Derek makes a noise of protest, but Stiles rises his hand, silencing him.  "I hated it when you betrayed me, when you said you would sentence me to death.  It made me doubt what I feel for you, Derek.  How could I put my faith, _my love,_ in a man who would do such a thing?  Kill his brothers, his friends, the men who trust him for revenge?  How could I possibly allow myself to still care for this man?  How could I instantly forgive him the moment he said his apologizes?" 

Stiles' voice breaks as Derek stares at him in desperation.

"Stiles, what are you saying?"  He asks softly.

"Why have you done this to me, Derek?"  Stiles questions, grasping at his chest.  "I know nothing of you.  You know nothing of me.  Jupiter's fucking cock, you tried to give me useless _jewellery_ , and yet you still make me feel like this."

"Like what?"  Derek breaths, in anticipation of the next words to pour from Stiles' mouth.

A solitary tear runs down Stiles' cheeks, "Like you have torn me asunder.  Ripped me to shreds and set me adrift."

Derek's shackles clink as he tries to reach for Stiles again.  Wordlessly asking for the man to take his hand, but Stiles stubbornly steps away, furiously wiping the tears from his eyes, "Stiles..."   Derek begs.

"I promised myself I would never love, because love is something I can never hope to hold on to."  Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, "The Dominus would have both of us crucified if he knew.  He told me before, you know?  What he would do to me if I ever cast wanting eyes upon someone else.  He would have me passed around the Roman countryside until my ass is too loose to be of any use, and only then would he have me killed.  Do you see what you have sentenced me to, Derek?  Do you fucking see?"

"Stiles,"  Lydia says, stepping up behind Stiles, resting a hand on his shoulder, "Derek must return to the ludus, Gerard will be back soon."

Stiles dashes the tears from his eyes, sending Derek one last desperate look before rushing right out of the room.  Derek's attention follow him until even the sound of his footsteps on the tile disappears.

"Hale,"  Lydia says, drawing his attention, "I've given Stiles oil and instructions to properly prepare himself beforehand."  She reaches out to fiddle with the bracelet around her wrist, biting her lip as if she cannot seem to think of how to phrase her next words.  "There will be wine at the party.  Overflowing goblets of wine and many, many senators.  They are a rowdy bunch when drunk.  They will want a show."

"I know."  Derek closes his eyes, remembering the Roman parties he once attended so very long ago.  "You're forgetting I was once a Roman."

Lydia shakes her head, a far away memory clouding her expression, it forms a faint smile on her lips that disappears almost as quickly as it appeared, "I won't ever forget that, Hale.  I knew your sister."

"Laura?"

" _Cora_."  Lydia says his sister's name with reverence, like they were friends once upon a time.  Or more than friends.  Derek's always known of Cora's preferences, the way her eyes would follow the female slaves, never the male.  The way she never suggested their father arrange a marriage for her as Laura once did.

"Oh."  Derek says in understanding.

"I arranged the funerals."  Lydia's eyes snap to his,  "It's why I was away.  I could not have your family buried in Ostia, the Magistrate would not allow it, but I bribed a man in Capua to organize the burials there.  I placed gold denarii in each and every mouth myself.  Your family will have their rightful peace."  Lydia's chest heaves as if in pain and her eyes brighten with unshed tears.  "It was the last gift I could ever give her."

"Thank you."  Derek's voice breaks, " _Thank you_."  He thought for months that his family would be forced to wander along the river Acheron for eternity, unable to pay Charon for passage across its deadly waters.  His fears have finally been put to rest.

Lydia nods sharply before her expression steels, "Back to the topic at hand.  The senators won't be satisfied if you are gentle with Stiles the way you intend.  If they wanted gentle, Gerard would have ordered a house slave to do the deed.  They want a gladiator.  They want a violent deflowering like if it was done in the arena."

"I know,"  Derek rasps.

"You will be forced to hurt him, no matter how unintentional."

Derek squeezes his eyes shut as tears run down his cheeks, "I know,"  he whispers.

***

The day of the party dawns and Derek feels nothing but dread.  He is brought down to the baths, and slaves made to bathe and oil him, shaving him of each and every strand of hair on his body.  He scrapes the hair from his groin himself, not trusting any other to do it for him.  He's never been this smooth before.  Roman men only shave their chest hair.  Arm and leg hair is usually left alone.  Gerard must be planning something extravagant.

When the slaves pull out a jar of honey and sheets of gold leaf, Derek frowns in displeasure.  Especially when they rub the honey into his skin, pressing the gold leaf on top. 

The gold conforms to the shape of his muscles, sparkling from the light of the candles.  The slaves even go as far as to apply it on his cock, and Derek hopes he can discreetly pull off as much of it as possible before he has to enter Stiles.

When they are done, he views his reflection in the baths.  The gold stops at the top of his neck.  Even though they shaved off his beard, they never applied any on his face, probably so he would be easily recognized.  For the viewing _pleasure_ of the senators, of course.

Derek is given no robes as he is pulled from the baths and meant to walk naked to the villa, shining like the sun god himself.  As was Gerard's intention.  He's just grateful none of his fellow gladiators sees him and makes a mockery of his appearance.  His nerves are already completely shot.

Derek is pushed in through the side entrance only to see Scott and Lydia engaged in an intense discussion, eyes wide and expressive arms waving.

"Derek!"  Scott rushes over, grabbing him by the arm, and making a face when he gets gold stuck to his palm.  "Gerard's leaving."

"What? When?"  He asks.

"Today,"  Lydia says, her mouth turned down in a grimace, "And he's taking Stiles with him.  So, on one hand you aren't going to be fucking him tonight."  Derek exhales a breath of relief, but Lydia continues regardless,  "On the other, he's taking Stiles with him to _Rome_."

Scott's expression is desperate when he says, "I'm trying to convince Lydia to request Stiles as her secretary."

Lydia shakes her head, "He would never allow it.  I'm a woman and Stiles is a man, it wouldn't be proper."

"Fuck propriety,"  Scott hisses.  "Stiles is going to go to Rome, and there is no doubt in my mind he'll catch the eyes of some noble.  Gerard will _give_ him away to gain favour."

Derek's heart stops in his chest and a look of absolute horror overcomes his features.

Scott continues.  "Your father's a senator, Gerard will agree."

"I'm the disgraced daughter of a senator, my words hold no weight upon his ears."

Derek shakes his head, "He took you in, that means he is trying to garner your father's favour, he will do as you ask."  Lydia frowns, but Derek meets her eyes, begging, "It's better than abandoning him, please."

He sees the exact moment she relents and he sighs in relief.  Nodding resolutely, Lydia grabs at the waistline of her dress nervously.  "Okay, okay, I will do this."

"Thank you." 

Lydia sighs, rubbing her forehead,  "Once again, Hale.  I do it not for you, but for Stiles."

Because the main event was cancelled, Derek is sent to spend the night as decoration.  He cannot help but be glad.  If it means Stiles is safe, Derek will gladly act as a glorified statue for eternity.  But it does not mean he has to like it.  Guests come by and fondle him, and he tries not to bite them when fingers stray too near his mouth.  Scott only receives the occasional grope as he stands by his side, dressed in a simple silver tunic.

Scott shrugs, smirking when no one is nearby, "You get used to it." 

"I worry for the day when I become accustomed to this."  Derek shuts his mouth when a woman slides by, hand trailing over his pecs.  He would like very much to push her into the nearby fountain.

When it feels like the night is nearing its peak, guests stumbling by, drunk with overflowing wine.  Lydia nears, "It is done."  She whispers discretely, "He has been instated as my secretary.  I'm hiding him in the library behind locked doors until Gerard leaves.  Just in case he changes his mind."

Derek opens his mouth, ready to thank her, but when a group of giggling girls walk by, gazing at him under lowered lashes, he settles for a simple nod.  Lydia wanders off into the depths of the party.

Derek wonders how Stiles is doing in the library by himself, if Lydia left him with a candle to at least stave off the shadows and fear.  Or if he sits alone among the rolled papyrus, expecting Gerard to break in at any moment and steal him away from everyone he's ever loved.

Derek wants to peel this gold off his skin, find Stiles, and wrap him up in a warm, comforting embrace.  He wants to take Stiles away from this cesspit, he wants to make things better for the both of them.  He wants peace.

***

Derek knows the only reason Kate never summoned him was because Gerard stopped her.  He should have figured that the moment Gerard left he would be called to her presence.  Yet, it still blindsides him.

She summons him to the villa, bound in chains, hands straining behind his back.  The faint hint of gold still lingers on his skin from the night before.  When she stands in front of him, her cold fingers trace over the glitter.  "You shine like a god."

Derek stares over her shoulder, refusing to say anything.  He stands tall, not allowing himself to show any form of fear in her presence.

She licks her lips and her fingers trail lower and lower still, "My father was fine with us fucking when I was trying to get pregnant, now he calls me a whore whenever I suggest it.  Hypocritical, don't you think?  He can stick himself wherever he so pleases, but I cannot?"

She casts her gaze on his face, tilting her head to the side.  She scoffs, "But I know what you want.  Me dead and that Celt boy in your bed." 

When Derek's eyes shift to her, open wide in fear, he knows he's made a grave error.  She reads him like an open scroll.  "So I was right, she sneers.  The boy isn't as vestal as my father brags.  Unless you course you are the one taking it up the ass, not him."

Derek's nostrils flare at her self-satisfied smirk, "If you hurt him-"

Kate laughs, fingernails scratching down his chest in sharp burning lines, "Don't you see, Derek?  He's my security."  Derek must make an expression of confusion, because Kate elaborates, "You won't displease me so long as that boy's life hangs in the balance.  Now, get on your knees, slave."  She says, pushing him down and slowly lifting up her stola.

That night, Derek sits in his cell, staring at the moonlit brick walls as tears stream down his cheeks.

***

Derek throws himself into his training.  He works long and hard until even the Doctore cannot keep up with him. 

From what he hears Scott say when he visits the villa on Allison and Isaac's summons, Stiles is being kept busy by Lydia.  Little academic jobs here and there, but enough to bring a permanent grin to Stiles' face.  One he wishes he could see.  But Stiles is not allowed in the ludus anymore.  A fact Derek has no doubt Kate had a hand in.

 _Kate_.  She calls him to her rooms whenever she wants.  Summoning in the middle of practice when he is dirty and sweaty, or even in the midst of lunch.  Scott looks at him with sympathetic eyes whenever he sees a guard take him away, but after Derek threatened him with bodily harm, he promised he wouldn't tell Stiles.  Gripping Derek's arm in promise.

He hasn't been able to please Kate the way she wants, no matter how roughly she tugs at his cock, he refuses to rise for her.  Instead she puts his fingers and mouth to work.

Derek hates it.  He hates her.  Every time he is forced to give her pleasure, he wishes he could bite down on her throat and tear it out.  Only knowledge of what would happen to Stiles, to his friends, keeps his anger in check.

One day as he is leaving Kate's rooms, Lydia nearly walks into him.  Her head is so buried in a scroll, she doesn't notice him until he is right in front of her.  She takes one look at him and dismisses his guard with a wave of her hand.

"Derek Hale."  She greets with a nod of her head.

Derek tips his head back to her in respect.  He hasn't forgotten what she did for Stiles.

She looks over him with a twinkle in her eye, "Follow me,"  she says, turning around and walking around a corner.  Derek can do nothing but obey, she commands presence with her very being.  No wonder she loved Cora.  They are so alike.

She takes him to what looks to be the library.  Pointing to a chair, she gestures for him to sit.  Derek does so gingerly.  He still wears a layer of filth and doesn't want to dirty anything, but Lydia just rolls her eyes at his carefulness, walking over to a desk tucked away in the corner.

"Why am I here?"  Derek questions, confused, as Lydia rummages around in the drawer of the desk.  Derek gapes when she opens a false compartment and pulls out the amber necklace he gave to Stiles.

"Going from the look on your face, you already know what this it."  She says, dangling the necklace from her finger.  Derek looks away quickly.

"I don't know what you're talking about,"  He whispers, sending a quick prayer to any god who is listening that she doesn't find out he gave it to Stiles.  She may have helped Stiles before, but he still doesn't trust that she won't run to Gerard once she finds out about Derek's feelings for him.

"Stiles gave this to me for safekeeping."  She smiles at him, amused.  "I did not take it from him, now stop your worrying."

"You know why I am worried.  I have every right to be."  He hisses in indignation.

She scoffs, "Then you shouldn't have given him a bauble in the first place, you idiot.  Stiles cares enough about you not to throw it away as would have been intelligent of him.  Can you imagine what would have happened if Gerard, in one of his perverted fits, decided to pull off Stiles' clothes as he is oft to do?  That necklace might have fallen out right then and there.  Stiles is a slave, he has no place to store his belongings but on his person."  She shakes the necklace in front of his face, "Do you understand?"

Derek nods, chastised.

"Roman men."  Lydia sighs, "Always thinking their lover wants something shiny as a token of love.  Stiles is a simple man, with simple desires."  Moving over to a trunk, she opens it, drawing out a small roll of expensive papyrus.  "Here,"  she says, handing it to him.

Derek stares at it, confused, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Lydia rolls her eyes, a look of exasperation overcoming her features, "Write to him, of course."

"Write what?"  Derek asks, accepting the roll.  He notices it is small enough to tuck into the folds of his loincloth.

"Use your imagination."  She says, tossing him a stylus and ink stick from her desk.  "Stiles loves to read, but he hardly ever gets the chance to.  You could write him a shopping list and he would appreciate it."

Derek nods, rising from his seat.  He tucks the items away, making sure he turns his back to Lydia as he does so.  He can palpably feel her roll her eyes again.

He's walking out the door when Lydia calls to him again, "And, Derek?"  He tilts his head to let her know he's listening, "Do not write him a shopping list."

***

Derek does not write Stiles a shopping list.  When he was young his mother used to tell him stories about the gods.  At night his siblings and him would gather at their mother's knees as she told them tale after tale of Jupiter's might, Hermes' craftiness, or Poseidon's adventures.  His favourite story was a simple one, however. 

He used to beg his mother again and again to tell him the tale of Minerva and her trusted owl.  His siblings would groan and wander off to bed lest they are made to listen, once again, to the story Derek loved to pieces.

He sits in his cell at twilight, still feeling the sting of Kate's claws against his skin, and writes.  There is enough light and at least hour until the sun sets.  Derek hopes to finish relaying the tale by then.  It resurrects beloved memories of him clinging to his mother's stola as she spun tale after tale of heroes and gods.  And by the time he knows it, his story is finished.

Rolling up the papyrus, Derek tucks it under his pallet and settles down for the night.  Lydia instructed him to drop it into a empty amphora by the training field where a house slave will be sent to fetch it, hand delivering it to Stiles.

He sleeps more peacefully than he has in days.

***

The next time he is in the villa, it is because he is summoned by Lydia.  Derek is nervous as he is brought up to Lydia's rooms, afraid that Kate might jump out at any second and demand to know why he is visiting her father's ward.

Lydia is quick to reassure him when he enters the library, the guard leaving and closing the door behind him.

"She is in town for the day."  Lydia says, rising from her seat at the desk, "You have nothing to fear."

"So long as she is alive, I will always fear."  Derek mutters.

Lydia pats him on the shoulder comfortingly as she moves towards the door.  Derek calls out to her, confused.  "Where are you going?"

She simple smirks and says elusively, "Enjoy."

As soon as the door closes behind her, another one opens on the far side of the room.  Stiles appearing, holding a waxed tablet and stylus in hand.  He writes while he walks and Derek cannot help but be impressed. 

It's the first time he's seen Stiles in weeks, and Derek feels an incredible amount of satisfaction knowing that he looks much happier, healthier, with Gerard gone.  There's more weight on his form, like Lydia is feeding him better, and he wears a full tunic covering his chest and body, stretching to just past his knees.  Compared to what Gerard made him wear, the tunic is a upgrade.

"Lydia,"  Stiles says without looking up as he walks further into the room, stopping just in front of a shelf containing stacked scrolls, "I'm having trouble with this particular problem..."  Stiles turns around, and catching sight of him, trails off, his eyes wide in his face.

"Greetings, Stiles."  Derek says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, "You look well."

"Greetings..."  Stiles echoes back, dumbly.

"I would have loved to see you sooner,"  Derek says just as Stiles drops his tablet down on a nearby table, sending the stylus clattering to the tile, "But greater forces seem to be keeping us apar- oof!"  Derek exclaims just as Stiles rushes towards him, not stopping until he bounces off of his chest.

Stiles grabs at the back of his neck and pulls him forward until  their mouths are only inches apart.  Stiles leans his forehead against Derek's, "Gratitude."  He says with a smile.

"For what?"  Derek finds himself asking, breathless and low, not wanting to disrupt the moment they share.

Stiles reaches into the belt tied around his waist and pulls forth the small roll of papyrus Derek tucked into an amphora a few days past.  He holds it out for Derek to take.  Looking it over, he finds the papyrus creased, the ink smudged, like it has been read again and again.

Derek smiles, giving the scroll back, "Did it please you then?"  He asks, already knowing Stiles' answer.

"Yes."  Stiles whispers, looking up under his lashes to meet Derek's gaze, as his lips part, tongue darting out to lick.  "It pleases me to no end."

"Then I am pleased."  Derek whispers, lifting his hand to brush a strand of Stiles' hair from his forehead.

"Yes,"  Stiles nods, his face flooding red with blood, "There is much pleasure to go around."

Derek leans in and gently presses his lips to Stiles' mouth.  He makes a faint, high pitched noise, hand moving up to rest on Derek's pecs.

"Oh, gods."  Stiles moans when Derek pulls back to look at him.  His cheeks and nose are flushed, cupids bow mouth open, and eyes closed.  Long lashes flutter against his cheeks. 

Derek frowns, his emotions running strong, threatening to make his heart skip a beat at any moment.  "Fuck.  You're so beautiful."  Derek breathes.  Stiles' eyes flutter open at his words, honey eyes blinking wide and trusting.

Stiles' fingers splay upon his chest, "Me?"  He laughs, "It's you who is beautiful.  Your words too.  You are a talented writer."

Derek smiles, tugging Stiles even closer, until they are pressed chest to chest.  "Gratitude."  Derek whispers in his ear before leaning in for another kiss.

***

"You fucking whore!"

Derek startles and drops his practice sword when Kate's voice echoes in the courtyard of the ludus.  Looking up towards the balcony, he sees Kate pulling Allison by the hair out towards the railing.  Quickly, Derek turns to Scott.  He finds the other man's face pale, his expression wide and vulnerable.  Derek's would be the same if it was Stiles up there instead of Allison.

"Slut!"  Kate screams as she tosses Allison against the railing.

"Kate!  Stop this nonsense!"  Isaac, Allison's husband and Scott's other lover, yells, rushing out onto the balcony, grabbing at Kate's arm, pulling her away from his wife.

Allison clutches at her scalp in pain as tears stream down her cheeks, "Kate, what?"  She asks, her voice small and confused.  Scott stiffens when he hears it, and Derek feels terrible for him.

"I saw you,"  Kate hisses, "with the Hispanic gladiator.  Fucking him on your marriage bed."  She points an accusing finger at Scott, "This filth sowing a noble Roman womb with his inferior seed.  What would my father think?  You let garbage touch you, Allison."  Kate spits, and Derek cannot help but grimace, at her hypocrisy. 

If she calls Scott filth, then what the fuck is he?  Maybe because he was once Roman, she feels like he is _worthy_ of her.  But the truth is, he is as much a gladiator as Scott, and yet she cannot seem to keep her disgusting hands from his skin.

"You're mistaken."  Allison pleads desperately, trying to save Scott from what will come.  "It was not the gladiator."

"Then who?"  Kate demands with narrowed eyes.

"Kate."  Isaac says, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation, "It was me."

"I am not a fool, Lahey.  Even in the warmth of candlelight your ass would still be pale as snow.  The flesh I saw was dark."  She turns back to Allison, shrieking,  "Who was it you were diluting our family's bloodlines with!?  Consorting in the dead of night like a fucking prostitute!"

Derek notices Scott shifting his feet, and when he opens his mouth to speak up and claim responsibility, Derek grabs tightly at his wrist.  "Think,"  He hisses harshly, "Kate will have you crucified, how would Allison feel then, that her carelessness got you killed?"

"But she will be punished instead."  Scott whispers back, his voice horse.  "I promised to protect both of them, I cannot break that vow now."

"It does not matter if you speak up or not.  Allison will be punished regardless, but it will be a mild hurt compared to crucifixion.  All that changes is that in one situation you live, in the other, she has to watch as you are nailed to a fucking tree.  _Hold.  Fucking.  Tongue_."

Scott snaps his mouth shut, but glares up at Kate where she crowds into Allison's space.

"I will not ask again, who was it, _dear niece_?"

"A prostitute."  Isaac states, words spinning fast around an elaborate lie.  "I brought a prostitute back from town with me, I wished to see him with his hands upon my wife.  She is my wife, I can do what I wish with her, can I not?"  Isaac says, haughtily, but his expression is apologetic when he looks at Allison.

They're ruining themselves to keep Scott alive.  To keep him safe, they are grinding their reputation to dust.  If any nobles caught wind of the fact that Isaac Lahey _allows_ his wife to fuck other men, they would never be able to show their faces in public without disgrace. 

Scott said it was his duty to protect them, but it seems like they've agreed to do the same for him.

Kate's eyes narrow in anger.  "Fucking sluts, the both of you."  She spits at Allison's feet and she startles, stepping back in shock.  "You will pack your bags, and by the end of the week you will leave this villa."  She smirks cruelly,  "I'm sure I will be able to find a suitable enough hog hole to your preference among father's holdings.  Far from Rome, far from Ostia, lest you bring even more disgrace upon this family."  Kate flips her palla over her shoulder and marches off the balcony.  Leaving Allison and Isaac behind, speechless.

Now that the show is over, the gladiators group back into pairs, returning to their sparring, but Scott still remains.  He stares up at the balcony, holding his hand out for the man and woman he loves.  But they are separated by distance and status.  All Allison can do is place her fingers to her heart, gesturing out to Scott as a sign of love and respect.  Tears overflow from her eyes when Isaac does the same.

Scott remains standing in the same place long after they leave, returning to the villa to pack their bags, going where Scott can no longer reach them.

Derek can palpably feel Scott's agony in his very bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, this is saaaad and now there's a surprise 3rd chapter because I wasn't able to fit everything into one final one, oops. 
> 
> On the other hand, after writing this I have come to the conclusion that I wish to rip Kate Argent's head from her shoulders. Oh my god, I hate her in this fic and I was the one who wrote it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but life is damned hectic.
> 
> Okay, so warnings. Lot's of violence, like a fucking lot, but what else does one expect of a Spartacus AU? Also, someone gets whipped in a very unconsenual way.
> 
> Rating has also become explicit for reasons.

The next time Derek sees Stiles, during one of Lydia's arranged meetings, he envelopes him in his arms and does not let go for what seems like hours.  Wrapped in his arms, he can protect Stiles from anything, even from the wrath of those who would seek their deaths.

When he finally pulls back, he looks Stiles in the eye, "You know I love you?"  Running a thumb along Stiles' cheekbone, he caresses the pale freckled skin.  "Not even Jupiter himself could wrest you from my arms."

"I know."  Stiles smiles sadly, nodding.  "Scott is not taking their banishment well."

Derek frowns, worried.  Scott's last few fights in the arena were vicious and angry.  He is taking his frustration out in a place where it is dangerous to be anything but clear of mind.

"He is angry,"  Derek begins,  "As I would be if you were taken from me.  It is understandable."

"It will get him killed."

Derek nods his head grimly, "Yes, I fear it will."

"You will protect him as well as you are able?"  Stiles demands determinedly, like he is asking a favour of Derek, and not what he will do anyway.  Scott is his brother in all but name.  Stiles need not ask.

Derek closes his eyes, "I will try, but he is reckless."  He thinks back on their last battle in the arena.  If Derek had not thrown a spear into the Phoenician approaching Scott's unaware back, he would have died easily.  A spear in the back is an unfit death for a champion.  "It is a most difficult task."

"Shit."  Stiles says lowly, scrubbing his hand over his face, "I know not what I can do.  I am no longer allowed to even look at Scott, let alone be in his presence.  Domina forbids it.  I thought Dominus was strict but she is much, much worse."

Derek frowns at Stiles' expression.  He reaches out and holds him by the shoulders, "Has she touched you?"  He asks, afraid of the answer.  Derek believed she only focused her pleasure on him, but if she is commanding Stiles as well.   He honestly does not know what he would do.

"She does not favour my body, I am too lithe for her tastes."  Stiles looks away, a combination of relief and embarrassment at the thought that anyone would not find him attractive.  "She watches the gladiators, not the body slaves."

Derek looks at Stiles, really looks at him.  From his gentle, yet sturdy ankles.  To his prominent and noble collarbones.  To his neck, long and true, and cannot imagine how anyone could not find this man attractive.  He intends to tell Stiles this, but instead something else, something completely unintentional falls from his lips.

"Be glad."  He says, a faraway look in his eye, "Be glad she does not order you to her bed."

Stiles frowns, before his eyes suddenly widen in understanding, "Derek..."  He says, his voice shaky.

Derek shakes his head, looking away, ashamed.

"No, my love, look at me."  Stiles reaches out shaky hands to cradle Derek's head, making him look into his eyes.  "How can I help you, I will do anything."

Derek smiles at Stiles' worried expression, "Alas, but if only my heart was not forever yours."

"Derek."  Stiles breathes, "What did you agree to?"

"It is of no matter."  Derek pulls away from Stiles, saying dismissively, "We are both alive, that is cause for celebration alone."  He walks over to the table where he interrupted Stiles' work.  Looking at the papers, he sees Latin, which he recognizes, but also the script of an unknown Celtic tribe.  Stiles' ancestor's tribe, most likely.  He wonders if John taught Stiles the language, or if he taught himself.

"You come back here, _Roman_."  Stiles hisses, his voice tinged with so much venom, it makes Derek freeze in his sandals, wondering just what he said to earn himself Stiles' fury.  He turns around to face Stiles, only to find tears running unhindered down his soft cheeks.

"Stiles..."

"You cannot tell me that fucking bitch is touching you without your permission and shrug it off like it is nothing."  Stiles spits.  "How would you feel if Gerard took me, without my consent, and I simply thought nothing of it?"

Derek growls, even the _thought_ of that makes his blood boil.

"Exactly."  Stiles says, walking up to Derek, reaching out and taking his hand.  "Derek, you are not sleeping with her.  She is _violating_ you."  He says carefully, looking earnestly into Derek's eyes.  "It does not matter that she is a woman, and you are a man.  _She_ holds the power and _she_ is abusing it.  It is not something to be thought of lightly."

Derek feels moisture against his cheeks.  Reaching up, he lightly touches under his eyes, fingers coming away wet.  "I,"  he begins, stammering his words, "I believe I have normalized it."

"What do you mean by that?"  Stiles asks, reaching to take Derek's hand.

Derek licks his lips nervously,  "She's been doing it for years, ever since the night I became a man.  Roman boys are taught when a woman is interested in them, it is always good, and nothing but pleasure should come of the union.  But I knew I didn't want it, I still don't.  I always believed I was an outlier, that I was alone in my beliefs."

" _No_ , Derek, no."  Stiles shakes his head violently, "You are right, whoever told you otherwise is wrong.  She stole from you that which you should have given willingly.  It is an unforgivable offense, and she should die for it.  She _will_ die for it."  Stiles states, before his eyes go wide and he looks away from Derek, lifting a hand to his lips like he cannot believe the treason he just uttered. 

"I will kill her for what she has done to you."  Stiles finally says after a long measure of silence, looking up into Derek's eyes, his own wide and unbelieving, yet determined.  "I promise you that, on my honour."

***

Derek sits in the baths, arms spread out along the warmed tile, while the other men speak among themselves.  Murmurs from talk of strategy in the arena, to which whore has the most supple tits.  He mostly ignores their gossiping, preferring to use the allotted time for relaxation, and to clean the wounds rent from Kate's claws.

Waves move against his torso as a body lowers itself into the water beside him.  Derek opens one eye, watching as Scott settles onto the ledge.  His body is covered in purple bruises, a result of his absent-mind in the arena.  His expression is a mixture of bitterness and determination.  Derek shuts his eye again.

"Friend."  Scott begins, his voice rough.  "I request words."

Derek opens his eyes, turning his body towards Scott, a wordless gesture for him to continue.

Scott swallows heavily, as if he is having trouble finding the exact words to use.  "You are dear to my brother's heart, and he to yours.  You are my comrade, my friend, and I would trust you with my life. Know, I have never asked anything of you before this moment, but I do not know how much longer I can go on like this."

Derek looks at Scott calmly, already knowing what is coming, what he wants.

"I ask you this, my heart heavy but true, I wish to leave this place forsaken by the gods, and I require your aid."

Derek sighs, fingers lightly running over the scratches Kate left on his pecs, they sting, even with the soothing oil covering them.  "You won't be able to escape without leaving a trail of dead in your wake.  The Argents will hunt you down, and everyone who helps you."  If Scott were to escape, he would need the aid of a house slave, one with easy access to keys and locks.  Derek already knows which one Scott is likely to ask, and who will be punished once Scott leaves.

Scott shakes his head, "They won't be able to find me, I will disappear from the peninsula, it will be as if I never existed."

Derek scoffs, "Everyone knows where you plan on going, the Argents included.  Gaul, to the household where your lovers are exiled."  Stiles' condemnation for helping Scott escape would be all for naught if he was caught again.

Scott growls with frustration, "And you would know, _Roman_.  Your people are fond of disgrace and exile, are they not?  After all, did they not treat you similarly?"

"Be happy they did not kill you and your lovers in their beds."  Derek snarls lowly, remembering all to clearly the sound Laura made when a soldier ran her through.  "As is the _Roman_ way I am all too familiar with."  Derek spits, rising from the bath, water and oil running in streams down his skin.  "I tire of this conversation.  But know this, if you put Stiles at risk of crucifixion, I will not hesitate to put my blade through your neck, screw the lashings it will cost me."

Scott's eyes suddenly clear as if he only now remembers what would happen to those he leaves behind.  "I did not think of that."  He says with a hint of horror in his tone.

"You are a fool blinded by love."  Derek says, climbing from the bath, "I once thought as you did, but thank the gods I did not follow through.  Stiles helped me realize the consequences of my actions.  As I have done for you."

Derek picks up a clean loin cloth from the pile, and his mind thrums away with worry.  Both for Stiles and Scott.  The night Stiles proclaimed he would kill Kate, Derek had to spend their time together talking him down, but now that Scott wants to escape?  He fears it would take only a short word to get Stiles to agree, believing he might be able to free Derek from Kate's clutches in the process.

Derek buries his head in his hands.  What has he done?  He should have never told Stiles about Kate.   He should have suffered in silence.

***

Gerard returns, bringing with him fine wines, slaves from the markets of Rome, and an even greedier appetite for food, drink, sex, and violence.  More often than not, Derek finds Gerard on the ludus balcony, watching the gladiators train from above.  His eyes are full of desire, not for their bodies, but for the wealth they bring him, the prestige.  Gerard is a lanista who wishes to rise above his station.  It is why he murdered Derek's family.  Why he stares at his gladiators like they are made of gold. 

Because to him, they are.  However, Derek knows the truth.  Lanistas can amass all they wealth they could ever desire with the right gladiators, but no matter how many victories they achieve.  No matter how many people Gerard murders in cold blood.  He will never be what he desire, he will never rise above his pathetic station.  And that thought alone lets brings Derek so much pleasure.

At least with Gerard's return Kate is unable to call him forth from the ludus.  He hasn't seen her in a fortnight, and it brings him some comfort, little as it may be.  Since Kate hasn't been able to summon him, neither has Lydia.  Derek has no way of knowing how Stiles is doing now that Gerard is back, it worries him.  He has no doubt Lydia will do whatever she can to protect Stiles, but whatever Gerard desires, he gets. 

It scares Derek shitless.

He fights in the arena.  He protects Scott, for Stiles.  And still he worries and worries.  Whenever he sees Gerard, he can do nothing but imagine Stiles pressing fig after fig to Gerard's lips until he is satisfied and full.  Until he pulls Stiles towards him for another form of satisfaction. 

Those thoughts make him dangerous, unpredictable.  While Scott flounders, wasting away, Derek flourishes in the arena.  Fury makes him cut down opponents indiscriminately, imagining them as Gerard each time he runs a blade through a soft belly or across a bared throat.  When Scott and Derek fight in pairs, the Romans call out his name instead of their champion.  They favour him over Scott.  Showering him with rose petals as he strides out of the arena.  Scott, with scraps, each and every time Derek saves his life.

Soon, they will demand he be pitted against Scott.  When that day comes, he wonders what he would say to Stiles.  How Stiles will feel, having to choose who to pray to come home unharmed; his brother or his lover.

***

In the end, it is Boyd who brings forth a solution.

"We could just kill them all."  Boyd shrugs, stirring his gruel.

Derek pauses his chewing, swallowing quickly.  "You cannot mean that?  The whole Republic would come after us, not just the Argents."  Derek whispers, glancing around for anyone close enough to overhear.

"Not if we collapse the arena during the games.  It would be seen as an accident, or even better yet, an act of the gods.  The house slaves could slip away in the confusion, and all the gladiators in the arena would be declared dead."

"We _would_ be dead.  I don't see how you plan on escaping while even the Romans cannot?"

Boyd smiles his quiet little smile, the one that comes before he sweeps the feet out under a fellow gladiator, the one where he knows something another does not.

"Who has the freedom to roam among the ludus, the villa, the town?  The _arena_?"  Derek narrows his eyes in confusion, but Boyd continues.  "And yet still is a slave, just as we are?"

"Jackson."  Derek says.  "But why would he aid us?  He has a good position, he is comfortable."

"Evidently you have not seen the way he looks at the gladiators when we fight, he longs for blood, desires it even.  He wants the respect of the gladiators, and if we manage to convince him that helping us would gain it, well,"  Boyd leans back, "Freedom would be plausible."

"Or, Jackson could tell Gerard what we are planning, and we would be executed."

"What is a little risk for much gain?"  Boyd says.  "I am tired of this place, I want to return to my farm, to my wife."

"I didn't know you were married."  Derek remarks, his brows raised.

"That is because I never told you."  Boyd counters smarmily.

Derek snorts, "Fair enough."

Boyd shakes his head, amused.  "I trust you, Derek.  Do not take that lightly.  I once thought you were a spoiled, little Roman who learned to fight because of a tutor."

Derek chuckles, "I _was_ taught by a tutor."

"But you are no longer _spoiled_ , you are no longer fixated on that which makes you Roman; your honour, your pride.  You have left that behind, now you follow true to that which makes you human; love, friendship, brotherhood.  You are a good man, Derek Hale."

Derek smiles, blushing lightly as he nudges at Boyd's shoulder.  "As are you.  Your wife must be a lucky woman."

"On the contrary, I am a very lucky man.  Erica is a fierce woman, a Germanic warrior, if you know what I mean."  Boyd smirks.

Derek raises his brow, "How on earth did you manage to convince her to settle down and become a farmer's wife?"

"It was easy enough,"  Boyd says, spooning some gruel into his mouth.  "I simply didn't ask her to settle down."

Derek frown, confused.  "I don't understand?"

Boyd sighs, "You Romans expect your wives to stay at home while you go to battle.  With Erica and I, the places are switched.  She goes off with her brothers a few months a year, and comes back with gold for us to improve the farm.  She shares her stories, stays the winter safe and warm in my arms, and leaves again in the spring."

"Do you not worry for her safety, her virtue?"  Derek asks.

Boyd scoffs, "Erica can handle herself, she's stronger than me, and quick on her feet.  Gods, she's probably stronger than you."

Derek laughs, "I would love to meet a woman like her, one who can make a wife out of a man like you."

Boyd rolls his eyes, ignoring the teasing insult.  "I doubt it, she detests Romans.  She would spit at your feet, then try to disembowel you in the same movement."  Boyd's expression turns melancholic and sad, "She should be back at the farm by now, I wonder what she'll think when she finds the village razed to the ground?  I wonder if she thinks I'm dead?"

Derek grasps Boyd's shoulder in comfort, "Do not fear, she sounds like the kind of woman to track her lover to the ends of the earth if she ever lost him.  I'm sure she's out there searching for you."

Boyd chuckles, patting Derek's hand in thanks, "I'm surprised she hasn't yet show up at the gates of the villa, threatening to burn it down lest they return me to her."

Derek raises his cup of water, "Here's to exceptional lovers."

Boyd knocks his cup against Derek's, "Both in the bed and out."

While Boyd takes a long swing from his cup, Derek freezes, a chill running down his spine.  Memories of Kate's fingers touching his skin, thoughts of her tugging on his limp cock, it makes his back stiffen in an uncomfortable fear.  If Stiles asks for Derek to take him to bed, he doesn't know if he will be able to give it to him.

Suddenly, the anger he feels for Kate is all consuming.  How dare she ruin this for him?  Thoughts of sex should make him feel nothing but lust.  Instead, all he feels is dirty, disrespected, powerless.  

His fingers clench so tight around his cup, the terracotta cracks. 

***

"You jest,"  Jackson throws his head back in mirth as Derek's brow dips in frustration.  "Why the _fuck_ would I help you?"

"You long to be a gladiator, but Gerard keeps you as his lap dog."  Derek whispers harshly, pulling Jackson further into the alcove just as a guard passes them buy, looking at them curiously.

"Even if I free this whole fucking villa, I will not be a gladiator.  I will be a fugitive, hunted until the day I die.  How could I possibly benefit from that?" 

"You would regain your honour.  You sold yourself to Gerard to repay debts owed, intending to fight as a gladiator,"  Derek says, regurgitating the stories Ennis tells in the dining hall to further besmirch Jackson's name.  Jackson was born Roman, but the son of a lower class whore, not a senator's son like Derek. 

The gladiators hate him because of his birth, and because he was a failure in the arena.  Gerard was going to sell him to another ludus, until he learned of his quick wit, and chose to elevate him instead.  Making the other gladiators more bitter.  "Would you not rather be free then have your honour spat upon?"

"Honour?"  Jackson scoffs, "I have no honour left to lose.  I was treated worse than a pile of shit by my brothers when all I wanted was to be one of them.  I simply begged missio once, and now I am mocked whenever I enter the ludus.  All, except the Doctore detest me, and I them, he alone holds my respect."

Derek thinks of Stiles' father.  Tall and resolute, John holds everyone's respect.  Even Gerard's, and Gerard respects no one.

"So no, Hale, I will not help you and your cause."  Jackson sneers, "And if I happen to hear whispers of this insane plot again, I will present those whispers to Gerard for his consideration.  Perhaps then my debts will finally be settled."  Jackson says, pushing past Derek, walking off without looking back.

Derek sags against the wall.  Scrubbing a hand over his tired face, he sighs heavily in frustration.

***

Derek rests in the shade of the ludus, drinking water after a tough practice session with Boyd.  The larger man is steadily improving and Derek wonders what Boyd's wife would say if she could see him now. 

He watches lazily as the Doctore trains new recruits, instructing them on foot placement and how best to avoid dying within their first minute in the arena.  He walks confidently among the group, hands folded behind his back, clutching the whip lightly.  He hardly ever uses it in contact against skin, instead manoeuvring it to best startle, and keep the men alert and on their toes.  It's easy enough to step aside a blow, unless the Doctore is not given one's full attention.  And at that point, any man deserves it for letting his mind drift.

It's easy enough to see why the men respect him, and for good reason.  John Stilinski is an exceptional man.  Derek truly understands where his exceptional son gets it from.

The gates of the ludus open to reveal two guards in heavy armour.  Hiding behind them, like he knows exactly how many of the gladiators wish him dead, is Gerard.  Stiles follows in his shadows and Derek's heart sinks at the sight of the wine jug he carries and the grape leaves woven in his hair.  It seems Lydia was unable to keep Stiles as her assistant now that Gerard is home. 

Derek tries to catch Stiles' eye, but for some reason he keeps looking away.  Derek feels a chill at the expression of resignation and despair he wears.  What the fuck has Gerard done to him?

"Doctore."  Gerard greets with a wide smile on his wrinkled face, "How are the men doing?"

John tears his gaze away from Stiles, smiling falsely at Gerard while bearing a slight furrow between his brows.  He probably holds the same concerns as Derek.

"Dominus."  John says, tilting his head in respect, "They improve greatly.  The new men you have recently purchased are of able mind and body, they will be great gladiators with the right tutelage."

Gerard preens at the compliment, "I am pleased you find my selection worthy."

It's so strange to realize that Gerard's own slave is probably the only person whose opinion he holds in such high regard.

Gerard snaps his fingers and Stiles walks forward, a blank expression on his face as he fills Gerard's empty cup.  Just before Stiles moves to step back, Gerard strikes like a snake and snatches Stiles' chin.  Derek unconsciously moves to rise, but finds himself stopped by Jackson with a hand to the shoulder and a raised brow.

 _Fuck_ , he has to remain neutral, he can't be seen favouring Stiles, or they will suffer for it.  Derek nods to Jackson in thanks.

"You're probably wondering why I've brought your son with me today."  Gerard says, a finger lightly stroking Stiles' chin.

"Dominus?"  John says nervously, eyes fixated where Gerard's disgusting fingers lie.

"He has greatly pleased me, your son has.  He is truly his father's son." 

John closed his eyes, restraining himself, "Is that so, Dominus?"  He says, voice cracking.

"He has caught the eye of a wealthy patrician, a senator and future imperator.  Stiles will grant me much favour, won't you boy?"  Gerard demands.

"Yes, Dominus."  Stiles says, resigned, staring down at his feet.

"Will the senator be visiting often?"  John asks carefully, like he is afraid of the answer he might receive.  "He could visit the ludus, see the strength we have to offer?"

Gerard scoffs and Derek's heart sinks in his chest, knowing exactly what is about to come.

"He is a noble man, he would never degrade himself by coming to a ludus.  He will be taking Stiles to Venusia with him in a fortnight."

Derek's heart stops in his chest.  Venusia is a ten day trip on foot from Ostia.  It is a long and far journey over the mountainous interior of Italia, a journey difficult to make and traversed rarely.  Once Stiles leaves, Derek has no doubt he will never see him again.  As apparently does John, because his whip falls from his hand into the dust as he stares at Gerard in shock.

"What..."  John says in disbelief.

"You have served me well all these years, Doctore, and so, I am allowing you one final goodbye."  Gerard says, as if he is granting John a favour and not violently ripping him away from his only son.

Stiles steps forward to his father, preparing to say his farewells and Derek cannot help feel moisture fill his eyes as Stiles' gaze shifts to Derek's once before looking away.  Like he cannot bear to acknowledge that this too will be the last time they will see each other.

"Oh, fucking no."

Gerard freezes at John's violent expletive, his eyes narrowing.  "What did you just say to me?"

"You cannot give my son away to be the plaything of a man who will treat him like a glorified toy.  I won't allow it."  John pulls Stiles forward, positioning him behind his back, trying to protect him from what is to come.  He rests a hand on the pommel of his gladius, preparing to draw it at any moment.

The guards on either side of Gerard stiffen and move closer to protect their employer. 

"Allow it?"  Gerard scoffs haughtily, but his eyes flit over the courtyard as gladiators stand at attention.  A few even move closer, gripping tight their various weapons.  Derek shifts, intending to join them. 

"Allow it!?"  Gerard screams in fury.  "You cannot tell me what you will or will not allow.  You are a slave, one who lies far beneath me.  You have no power in this household, and now the imagined power I have allotted you has gone to your head!"  Gerard turns from John and glares at the approaching gladiators, "You will stand down or by Jupiter, I swear I shall have you all put to death!"

Stiles meets Derek's eyes over his father's shoulder and subtly shakes his head, begging Derek not to put himself in harm's way.  Derek listens to Stiles' wishes, nodding reluctantly.

"Dominus, he is my son.  My one and only child."  John begs, open desperation in his voice.  "Have I not served you all these years?  Bled and sweat for you in the arena?  Have I not trained men to make you the richest man in Ostia?  _He is my son_ , please do not take him from me."  Tears stream down John's face as he clutches tightly at Stiles, afraid to let him go.

Gerard's eyes narrow.  "He is my slave before he is your son.  And you are both mine to do with as I please."  Gerard snarls.  "Perhaps you need be reminded of your place in this household?"  Gerard spits vehemently.  Spinning, he addresses the ludus as a whole.  "Did you hear me!?  Tonight your precious Doctore will be made an example of.   I will show you exactly what happens when you disrespect your fucking dominus."

Derek feels Jackson stiffen beside him as a look of shock overcomes his expression.  Derek knows he wears the exact same face.

***

The whip strikes with a sound akin to the crack of ice.  Derek flinches as yet another long, sharp welt is raised on John's skin.  Stiles is actively crying, but refuses to look away.  Derek wishes he could hold him.  Wishes he could make it all better, but he cannot even look at him too long without raising suspicion.

"Ten more lashes!"  Gerard yells from the balcony, "And make them good, Jackson."

Jackson cringes, and his hand shakes, at he takes a step back, holding tight the Doctore's own whip.  He has already given John ten strokes, and ten more will surely cause irreparable damage.  Derek stands close enough to hear the word Jackson whispers over and over as if it could make this all better, as if it could erase the bloody lines he carves into his Doctore's back.

"Apologies."  Jackson whispers again just as he lets the whip fly.

Stiles' whimpering is loud enough to hear a mile away, and with each stroke it gets louder and louder

Abruptly, Gerard turns to Stiles and backhands him across the face.  Stiles falls to his knees and Lydia pushes past an indifferent Kate to help him back to his feet.  "Shut your incessant wining, brat.  You could have had a satisfactory goodbye, but your father chose to disrespect me instead, so you will watch, and you will say nothing."  Gerard growls, just as the whip descends again.

The Doctore hasn't screamed once.  He bites down on a leather bit shoved in his mouth, taking the whipping like a man who will never be defeated.  A man proud to protect his son from all that would seek to harm him.

Derek is reminded of his own father.

He looks away at the next blow, whispering, "Fuck,"  when blood sprays from the wound.  John's wife is barely holding herself back from running forward and stopping the whipping.  She has treated men for lacerations like this, sustained in the arena, but never her own husband.

Finally, with the crack of the tenth strike, Jackson drops the whip and steps back, body vibrating with barely suppressed tension.  Derek runs forward and braces John just before his legs give out, pulling on the ropes suspending his arms overhead.  Boyd helps him untie a disoriented John from his bonds, slowly lowering him face first onto a prepared stretcher.

Derek stands back as two guards carry him into the ludus, Melissa following on their heels, shouting at them to be careful not to jolt the stretcher.

Derek knows that everything has changed the moment Jackson moves to stand beside him.  Closing his eyes, Jackson slumps forward in fatigue as he whispers,  "I will help you in your endeavour."

***

A week later Jackson appears in the ludus, summoning him up to the villa.  Derek has kept in correspondence with him through hidden notes and secret messages, planning what they will do and when they will do it. 

Right before Jackson deposits him in front of the fountain, he bends close to Derek and says, "It will happen two days from now, prepare yourself."

Jackson leaves after that and only a few moments later, Gerard arrives with a man dressed in the purple toga of a senator.  The man wears a face of extreme distaste as he glances around the villa, eyes finally falling on Derek.

"Is this the champion meant to fight in the games held in my honour?"  He asks in a nasal voice, looking down at Derek from under his nose.  He is a tall, muscular man, powerful and strong.  Even an idiot can see why he is soon to be declared an imperator.  Intelligence flashes in his eyes as he stares down at Derek.

"Yes, Senator Deucalion.  This is the champion of Ostia, he will fight the former champion to the death in two days time, for your pleasure.  The arena will be full of people cheering your name... _Imperator_."  Gerard says with a smirk.

"I am not yet an imperator, it is inappropriate to address me as such, do not do it again."  Deucalion says to Gerard dismissively as the smirk falls right off his face.  Derek's lip quirks.

Deucalion must catch his smile because he asks, "Do you have something to say, slave?"

"No, Senator, nothing of import."  Derek says, looking away.

Deucalion hums.  "I hear you were once a noble son of the Hale family?"

Derek freezes, just as Gerard says, "Senator, I don't like to bring that up, it makes him believe he is more than he is."

"Hold your tongue, Argent."  Deucalion says and the man steps back, bowing his head. 

"I knew your mother."  Deucalion says, once again addressing Derek.

At that, Derek raises a brow in curiosity, "You did, Senator?"

"Everyone in Rome knew of the beautiful Talia.  All sought her hand in marriage.  All were denied, of course, except your father."  Deucalion scoffs.  "Why is that, do you think?  There were richer men with higher positions clambering for her hand, yet she chose him.  She chose him over me."  Deucalion tilts his head to the side, studying Derek's face. 

"You look so much like your mother, but your eyes are your father's."  Deucalion taps a finger against his lips.  "I wonder what Talia would think, knowing her only son might live or die at my pleasure.  Live or die with the smallest flick of my thumb."

Derek swallows heavily as Deucalion's expression grows cruel, "I wonder if she would deny me then?  What do you think, _Derek_?"

"About what, Senator?"  Derek asks, his brow furrowing.

"How do you think she'll feel to see you in the arena at my mercy?"

Derek bites his lip before saying, "I don't think she would even go to the games, she always did prefer the equirria over gladiatorial combat."

Deucalion appears stunned that Derek would speak so out of turn, but then he starts laughing, "You truly are your mother's son, you even inherited her scathing wit."

"That is what my father always said."

Deucalion chuckles before turning to Gerard, "Since you are already giving me the Celt boy, I am willing to pay well over asking price for this slave."

Gerard shakes his head, "He is not for sale."

"Even for two hundred denarii?"  Deucalion offers.

"Even then."  Gerard sneers at Derek, saying, "He holds great sentimental value."

Deucalion frowns, displeased.  "Well, my offer stands."

"I will take it into consideration."  Gerard says even though Derek knows he won't.

Deucalion pouts, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child.  "If you won't sell me the gladiator, I want the Celt boy at the games."

Derek's eyes widen in fear.  Does he want Stiles to fight them?  Derek would sooner die than allow any harm to befall Stiles at his hand.

"In the arena?"  Gerard asks, addressing Derek's fears.

Deucalion chuckles, "Of course not, but pretty things go so very well with blood, don't you think?  I want him to pour me wine and feed me as a watch your current champion eviscerate your former one."  Deucalion says, sadistic intent implicit in his tone.  This man loves the act of spilling blood, both watching and doing.  Derek prays to the gods that their plan will succeed and Stiles will not have to leave with this vicious creature.

"Very well,"  Gerard says, following after Deucalion as he sweeps out of the room, leaving Derek kneeling by the fountain.

***

The amphitheatre of Ostia lies in the centre of the city, surrounded on all sides by shops and businesses.  The city is densely packed with buildings upon buildings, and as Derek and Scott are pulled through the city in the cart, they notice banners and decorations spread out along the facades.

"The Senator must be a popular man."  Scott says.

"Apparently."  Derek frowns,  "There will be many more people in the arena than usual."

"Good,"  Scott says.  "The Romans want to see blood, and soon they will receive it."

"How do you feel?"  Derek asks, nudging his shoulder against Scott's.

"Surprisingly, better than I have in weeks.  I can almost taste freedom.  It seems you will have a true contender in battle this day, not the shell of the man I have become."

"I cannot hold fault in you for that, you lost two people you hold dear.  If I lost Stiles, I don't know what I would do."  Derek says.

"At least you will not find out.  The Senator will die today."  Scott reassures.

Derek rubs his forehead, "I just wish I could talk to Stiles before I am meant to fight.  Just in case something goes wrong."

"Hey."  Scott grabs his hand, "Don't fill your mind with negativities, we will get through this and emerge victorious.  All the gladiators and house slaves know what they are meant to do, and Lydia is aiding us.  There is nothing that can possibly go wrong."

"I hope you are right."  Derek says worriedly.  Turning to look out the cart, Derek wonders what this city looks like razed to the ground.

***

Derek sits in the underground of the arena, washing his body and performing his stretches.  It is still a few more hours until the fight, and he is running every single scenario through his mind again and again.  So long as everything happens as it should, this will be the last time he has to see this dark and dusty place.  He is comforted by that thought.

He scrapes a strigil along the outside of his thigh, removing any excess oil and dirt.  He closes his eyes as he works, finding peace in the repetitive movements.  The telltale clank of metal unlocking informs him someone is entering the baths.  He pays them no mind and continues to work on his body.

"You look a sight for sore eyes."  Stiles says, and Derek quickly turns his head to see him standing by Lydia's side.  He wears a radiant smile as he gazes at Derek, blushing slightly when he stands and notices Derek wears not a stitch of clothing.

Lydia laughs, "You have an hour before I have to come fetch Stiles again, there's only so long I can keep that offense to the gods themselves, Deucalion, distracted.  It appears he prefers brunettes to redheads."

"Thanks you, Lydia,"  Stiles says, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Lydia smiles fondly, softly running her fingers through Stiles' hair, "Anything for you, my most precious friend."  She turns, addressing Derek.  "Remember, one hour.  Don't get carried away."  She says with a wink that makes Derek blush up to his ears, before locking the door behind her.

"Greetings."  Stiles says, walking closer,  "It feels like I have not seen you in years.  You look tired."

"I am nervous."  Derek admits.  "My hands shake at the thought of holding a blade while you watch."

Stiles tilts his head to the side, "Why?"  He questions, "I've seen you practice before."

"Practice is different than a battle, especially when I am fighting someone you love."  Derek bends his head in shame,  "I am afraid you will grow to fear me."

"Derek."  Stiles says, placing a finger under his chin, tilting his head until Derek looks into his eyes, "I could never fear you."  He says confidently.  "You are brave, you are vicious, dangerous even.  But you are also sweet, gentle,"  Stiles takes Derek's hands in his, stringing their fingers together, palm to palm.  "Your hands are calloused, but your heart is anything but."  Stiles smiles and pulls Derek until he steps closer.  He deposits Derek's left hand just above his heart.

"Can you feel the way it beats for you?"  Stiles whispers, staring deeply into Derek's eyes.  He places Derek's other hand over the small of his back.  "The way my body trembles when I am in your presence?"   

"Stiles, fuck."  Derek hisses when Stiles shifts and his thigh presses along Derek's cock.

"Can you feel how much I want you, Derek?"  Stiles whispers into his mouth, catching Derek's lips in a searing kiss as he thrusts his hips once, and yes, Derek can feel exactly what Stiles wants.

He moves his hand further down Stiles' back until he cups Stiles' ass.  His tunic hitched up around his waist as Derek touches bare skin.

They kiss slowly, that is until Stiles bites Derek's lip and suddenly his mind floods with memories of Kate doing the exact same.  But before he can descend into the pits of _that_ hell, he shakes his mind free.  He refuses to give into her, to allow her to take this from him.  This is all his.  Stiles is all his.  This pleasure is for Stiles and him, and no one else. 

He banishes Kate from his thoughts and concentrates on the feel of Stiles.  The softness of the skin beneath his hands, the heat of his mouth as he presses kisses down Derek's cheek, licking softly at his jaw.  The feel of his large hands as he takes a hold of Derek's ass and squeezes, sending him a smirk in the process. 

Derek chuckles, "Do you intend on groping me forever?"  He asks when Stiles squeezes him again.

Stiles' brow quirks, "As long as I can.  Why?  Do you not like it?"  He teases.

Derek smiles, pushing a strand of hair from Stiles' face, thumbing at his cheek in the process.  "I never said that."  He says, only to yelp when Stiles lightly slaps at his ass.  "I only wonder when we can get to the main attraction.  After all, Lydia only gave us an hour."

"If you want it that badly."  Stiles says, pulling away from Derek, walking over to the side of the bath where a jar of oil rests, he picks it up and tosses it to Derek.  Holding his gaze, not ashamed in the slightest, Stiles slides his tunic off one shoulder, letting it drop to the ground.

Derek stares at the miles of pale, mole-spotted skin on display.  Stiles is nothing like Kate.  She is tanned, she wears perfumes that assault his nose, she demands of him.  She takes and takes and gives nothing in return.

Stiles is the exact opposite. 

He bends, bracing his hands on the edge of the bath as he lets Derek look his full, waiting for him  to come and take.  But instead of doing just that, Derek slides forward and places the jar down.  He pulls Stiles out of his position, turning him around.  Derek kisses him breathless.

When Derek breaks the kiss, Stiles rests his forehead against his temple.  He is only slightly shorter than Derek and when he exhales, his breath tickles the small hairs at the back of his neck.

"I was offering myself for your pleasure, do you not want me because of- of...?"  Stiles stutters, obviously not knowing how to bring up Kate.  "If that is the case, it is perfectly fine.  I am not with you for the sex, it was never about that.  It's all about _you_."  Stiles whispers into his temple, lips brushing Derek's skin in a soft kiss.

Derek shakes his head, pushing Stiles away so they can properly look at each other, "It's not about that."

"Then what?"  Stiles questions, "Do you not desire my body?"  He asks nervously.

Derek chuckles and takes Stiles wrist, moving it down until his hand cups Derek's groin.  "Does this feel like I do not desire you?"

"Do you wish to wait, then?"

Derek smiles before pulling Stiles in and kissing him again, tongue exploring his mouth, seeking what Stiles has to offer.  After a long moment, he separates and watches with smug satisfaction as Stiles' eyes cross, dazed. 

Derek whispers in his ear, "I would have you do the taking,"  Stiles gapes as Derek thumbs his bottom lip.  "What?  The mouthiest man in Rome has no words to pass his sweet lips?"

 "But.."  Stiles says nervously, licking his lips.  "Do you not need attest your manhood?" 

"My manhood is attested for in the arena.  With you, I desire only pleasure, not shows of strength.  You are my sun, my light, my heart.  I love _you,_ not what lies between your legs."

Stiles smiles coyly, blinking up at Derek beneath his lashes,  "You would find great pleasure between my legs."

Derek groans, blinking a few times at the _thought_ alone of what Stiles is offering.  "That, I do not doubt."   He takes Stiles' hand in his, bringing it to his mouth, kissing the fingers, one after the other.  "You would also find great pleasure between mine."  Derek finishes, pressing one last kiss to Stiles' thumb, before taking the digit into his mouth, smiling around it when Stiles gasps.

"Gods..."  Stiles breathes when Derek slowly runs his tongue over the ridged skin.  "You will be the death of me."

"It would be a worthy death, I hope?"

"The worthiest."  Stiles inhales sharply as Derek presses close, inserting his thigh between Stiles' legs.  He pulls Stiles' thumb from his mouth, slick and coated with saliva.  Stiles seems to understand what Derek is asking because he spins him around until he is pressed up against the wall, arms braced for what will come.  Stiles drops to his knees, and picks up the jar of oil.

The first finger Stiles presses into him feels like heaven.  Derek has done this before in his youth, late at night.  He was curious and experimented, but he has never gone beyond three fingers.  Derek looks over his shoulder at Stiles' hard cock, and wonders if it will feel any different.

Stiles is _very_ thorough in his ministrations, and Derek finds himself biting into his forearm to stop the whimpers threatening to spill from his mouth, especially when Stiles' mouth becomes involved.

Two fingers in and Derek's legs are already in danger of collapsing under him, but Stiles holds him up, a hand braced against the small of his back while the other stretches him so reverently, and with so much care.  Stiles makes him feel precious, like he is worth more than all the gold in the world.  Like he _matters_.

By the time Stiles slicks up his cock and presses it to Derek, sliding into him with a beautiful sigh, he feels desperate.  Derek wants even more, to be closer. 

He pushes Stiles away.  "Like this."  Derek says, spreading their clothes on the cold stone floor, he moves to lay on them, beckoning Stiles forward.  "I wish to see your face."

Stiles complies, pressing an easy kiss to Derek's forehead, " I love you."

"And I love you."  Derek says, pulling Stiles on top of him.

Derek clings to Stiles' back as he rocks, so carefully, so slow.  His mouth is never a few inches from Derek's as they share breath and gasping pleasure.  Derek's hips roll to meet each and every one of Stiles' thrusts.  Stiles whispers nonsense into his skin; prayers to the gods, muffled expletives, all sorts of non-words and praise that makes Derek flush up to his ears.

"I'm going to come soon-"  Stiles gasps, "Are you close?"  He asks, but Derek cannot bring himself to open his mouth and answer, the intensity of having Stiles this close, touching him, making love to him, renders him mute.

"Derek, I cannot last much longer, Derek please-"  Stiles begs in desperation.  "Tell me-  Gods, are you close?"  In lieu of answering, Derek presses his forehead to Stiles', hoping to convey everything he feels through the look in his eyes.

Evidently he is successful because Stiles gasps, "Derek-"  and comes, shuddering between them for a long moment, before he seems to regain himself.  He dips his fingers in the oil and takes Derek in hand, stroking him until he too finds release.

After, Stiles rests in Derek's arms in the baths, washing away all signs of their pleasure.  Stiles keeps touching a bite mark he bestowed upon Derek's left pec.  Derek was careful to leave no marks upon Stiles' person, although he wishes he could have given Stiles a similar mark in return.

Their hour is nearly over, but Derek wishes it could stretch on into eternity.

***

"In honour of my victorious campaign in Greece, the true champion of Ostia will battle against the former champion in a fight to the death!"  Deucalion announces from Gerard's box to the crowd's thundering roar.  "The winner will rise into infamy, while the other will be lost to history.  This will truly be a battle for the ages!" 

Derek watches as the gate separating him from the sands of the arena is lifted.  Scott, and a carefully choreographed battle lies on the other side. 

John helped them with the details from his sickbed.  He was still weak and tired, but completely willing to help.  Derek strides forward to meet Scott at the center, to the roar of Ostia as they cheer his name, calling for Scott's demise in the most horrific way possible.

Derek is dressed to fight as a Murmillo at Deucalion's request, while Scott dons the armour of a Hopilite.  A spear in one hand, shield in the other to resemble the spear fighters of Grecian origin Deucalion faced in his campaign.

Scott catches Derek's eye, even through the heavily armoured helmets they both wear.

"Are you ready?"  Scott asks.

"As ready as I will always be."  Derek says.  "Keep your eye out for the signal."

"It is difficult to miss."  Scott jokes.  "Watch your back, I don't want to accidently kill you."

"Me?  Watch my back?  Should it not be the other way around, _Former Champion_?"

"Watch yourself, Derek,"  Scott warns, humour in his tone, "I have a sharp spear." 

Derek chuckles, 'Then, with your spear and my gladius, let us give these fucking Romans something to scream about."

Scott throws his head back and shouts to the heavens as Derek does the same.  Perhaps they will catch the attention of the war god himself, they need all the help they can get.

"Begin!"  Deucalion yells and Derek runs right for Scott.

He sides steps the thrust of the spear, feet constantly moving and shield blocking every blow Scott thrusts his way.  Derek knows Stiles is watching from the stands and even the thought of the man he loves watching as he battles makes him want to put on a show for the ages.  His body moves and shifts to the chanting of the crowd.  The battle was planned and practiced days ago, but it still feels new.

When Scott blocks his blade for the tenth time, Derek knows it is time to draw the first blood.  Scott nods slightly to him and pretends to stumble over the length of his spear.  Derek takes the opportunity presented and slices a long, shallow cut along the width of Scott's torso.  It will bleed heavily, but it is superficial, nothing compared to what Scott has experienced before.

Scott backs off, pretending to grasp at his wound as if it is debilitating while Derek throws his arms up, stirring the crowd into a frenzy.  The stadium is packed full of moving, withering bodies, and it is Derek's job to make sure they stomp, scream, and shout as loud as they possibly can.

After all, they are supposed to bring the arena down upon their own heads.

Scott launches himself at Derek, twisting his legs around, catching Derek in the thigh.  He falls, but rolls, quickly rising back to his feet.  The crowd goes mad, stomping and shouting at the skill he is presenting for their enjoyment.  Derek thrusts his chest out proudly. 

A few rounds later finds Scott and Derek smiling at each other as they pant heavily, they're both covered in shallow gashes, blood staining their bodies red like the war god himself.  Derek's eyes dart to the stands only to find Deucalion has pulled Stiles down in his lap.  Stiles wears a face of utter disgust as he presses grapes to Deucalion's mouth.

"Only fifteen more movements,"  Scott calls out to him as he dodges under the plunge of Derek's blade, "And then you can end that man yourself."

Derek licks his lips in anticipation, "Holding up good?"  He teases Scott, sweeping his legs from under him, only for Scott to roll away from the heel he thrusts into the dirt where his head once lay.

"Gods, you must be joking,"  Scott laughs hysterically.  "This is the best fucking battle I've ever fought."

Derek grins, laughing, as it comes time for the climax.  Spinning his gladius around in a reverse grip, Derek slams the hilt onto the edge of Scott's helmet, catching it, and sending it flying into the dust.  The stadium screams in triumph, knowing the end is nigh. 

If only they knew.

Scott backs away, bending low, pretending to act meek, scared, but he still wears a grin on his face.

And then, from the bowels of the arena three long notes sound from a horn and Derek watches as Stiles eyes widen in recognition.  He punches Deucalion in the nose, scrambling quickly off his lap.  Deucalion shouts in fury, distracted, and that's all the time Derek needs.  Scott tosses his spear to Derek and he catches it easily.  Aiming it, he lets the spear fly. 

And fly does it ever, right into Senator Deucalion's throat.

Kate lets out a shrill scream as blood spurts from Deucalion's neck, coating her in arterial spray.  At that moment, a long, horrible groan sounds and the stands furthest away from the Argents collapse under the weight of the Romans piled onto it.  Fire emerges and instead of screams of joy and cheer, fear and pain takes over.  The audience scrambles, trying to escape, but they will find their exits blocked and set alight as the stadium weakens beneath their feet. 

In the end, Derek will have his revenge. 

Stiles holds a dagger in hand, pulled from the waist of the dead Deucalion.  He holds it tight against Gerard's neck.  Derek sees his lips moving and wishes he could hear what is being said.  Whatever it is brings a look of intense fear to Gerard's face.  It is the expression he wears when Stiles draws his blade across his throat.  The one he will wear for all eternity.

Derek would feel at peace if there wasn't still one more Argent left.

He runs towards the Argent box, Scott hot on his heels.  Scott crouches, bracing his shield against his shoulder as Derek takes a running leap.  Stepping off the shield, he launches himself into the air, legs moving, trying to make himself go as far as he can with the boost Scott gave him.

He lands with a soft roll in the box.  Unfurling, he finds Stiles with a long cut along his back, splitting his tunic down the middle, but then he sees two guards, bloodied and lying in a pile at his feet, and Derek feels nothing but pride. 

Stiles meets his eye and shrugs, "What can I say?  I am my father's son."  Kate gasps as the dagger Stiles holds to her throat cuts a shallow groove, "Apologies."  Stiles says to her with a false smile, "My hand slipped."

Kate meets Derek's eyes, searching, hoping to see some sort of pity, anything but the vengeful hatred he knows he wears.  She sees the look in his eye, and she begins laughing manically, throwing her head back as she laughs and sobs.  She now knows what it feels to be so helpless, and yet it still brings Derek no comfort.  He will have no comfort until she lies dead at his feet.

"Derek,"  She begs, "Do you really want this pathetic Celt boy?  You are Roman, you will always be Roman, associating with anything less is beneath you.  Think about it, now that my father is dead, we can marry.  You can posses my wealth, my home, everything that was his.  Fuck, you can bring the boy into our bed, I don't mind!"  She shouts hysterically as Derek advances.  "He'll be your own personal cock-warmer.  It could all be yours so long as I live.  If I live, I can tell Rome all about my father's misdeeds.  Your name will be cleared and you can regain your power, your position.  It can all be yours again, just let me live, my love."

Derek growls, showing his teeth, as he shakes his head.  "Your death is worth my Roman citizenship a thousand times over."  He says, plunging his gladius into Kate's belly. 

"Die slow, bitch."  Stiles spits as she collapses to the floor.  Kate's eyes stare wide open in surprise as her hands scrabble at the wound on her stomach.  She takes deep, slowing breaths, blood gargling from her mouth, and Derek watches until he can watch no longer.

The stadium is in flames and they have to leave before it collapses.  Derek takes Stiles by the hand and they run.  Dodging falling debris, they run deeper and deeper into the heart of the arena where Jackson instructed them to go.

Derek presses a soft kiss to Stiles' cheek before tearing open the grate to the sewers.  The other slaves, let out from the villa by Lydia must have already left, the only sign of their presence are empty jars of pitch used to set the support beams alight.  Scott's shield and armour leans against the wall and Derek smiles, tossing his own gladiatorial armour on the pile.  He no longer needs it.

They climb into the murky pool, swimming into the darkness, hands still clasped tightly together.

***

Melissa helps clean his wounds of sewer sludge, applying a stinging salve to the inflamed parts as he hisses in pain. 

The large group of former house slaves and gladiators rest at the banks of a river, tucked in a dense forest to the north of Ostia.  They are tied and bruised and some sport severe burns, but only three gladiators were lost in the confusion, and selfishly, Derek is glad it was no one he cared about.  Eventually, Melissa moves on to others who need her help and Derek is left alone to stare out over the roar of the river.  He hears someone approach him from behind and turns around. 

"Where is Lydia?"  Derek asks when Stiles walks forward, his back already salved and bandaged.

"She chose to stay behind.  Now that she is out from under Gerard's thumb, she should have more freedom as the ward of his son, Christopher."

Derek raises his brow, "Freedom to do her maths and lie with pretty girls?"  Derek asks.

"Of course."  Stiles smiles before his expression goes sad.  "I shall miss her dearly."  Stiles says morosely.

Derek pats him on the shoulder, "At least she knows you are safe away from Ostia."

Stiles smiles, "At least."

Boyd limps forwards, with Scott's aid, his foot wrapped in a splint.  It was sprained after a small beam fell upon it, but Melissa assures so long as he does not exert himself, he will be fine in a few days.

"You're supposed to be resting, not walking about with, or without help."  Derek accuses, staring at Scott until he looks away in shame.

"I wish to have words."  Boyd says as Scott deposits him on a fallen log with a huff.

"Then speak."

"I do not intend to follow you north, I wish to return to Egypt, to find my wife."  Boyd says quietly.

Derek smiles, "As I thought you would, my friend."  Derek holds his hand out and Boyd claps it in comradery.  "It was an honour to fight beside you."

Boyd nods his head and rises to his feet, "Perhaps I will see you in the afterlife."  He says finally, turning to walk away, waving off Scott's help.

"But not too soon, I do not want to recognize your wrinkled face when I see you."  Derek calls after him, Boyd simply raises his hand in a wave.

Stiles leans heavily on Derek's shoulder as Boyd disappears into the camp.  "Have we planned a route?"  Stiles asks Scott who pulls a folded map from his waist band.  Unfolding it and placing it at his feet, Scott points to where they are, just north of Ostia.

"We will remain here for a few days, rest, and gather supplies, before heading north.  Eventually we will reach Cisalpine, where we will cross the alps into Gaul.  Lydia said Isaac and Allison were sent to a villa just at the edges of Roman Gaul." 

"The trip will take months,"  John Stilinski says, walking forward.  His back is still healing, but to Stiles' and Melissa's worry he insists on helping around the camp.  "I am not sure if everyone will want to come.  I suspect most will disperse in Cisalpine."

Derek rises to his feet, "Let us find out."

They gather together all the former slaves in a large clearing. 

"There are just under fifty of us,"  John says,  "It is a massive group difficult to feed and move without drawing attention.  It would be best that we disperse, but we do not intend to force it.  Those who wish to head north are free to do so.  But there are some of us who wish to head for the sea."  John holds his hand out to Boyd.

Jackson pushes his way through the crowd, moving to stand beside John who he greets with a smile.  "There are rumours of a slave revolt to the south led by a gladiator by the name of Spartacus, I am going to join his cause."  Jackson says, "Those who wish to fight Roman filth and take the spoils of their land, as they have done to us, may join me." 

Ennis steps forward, "I think it's about time I started smashing in Roman heads, not my those of my brothers'."  A few the gladiators, and house slaves murmur amongst themselves before some break off and shift towards Jackson.

Stiles frowns, and grips Derek's hand tight in desperation, cutting off his circulation, "Only blood will come from that path,"  He whispers as if he is afraid Derek will abandon him in favour of revenge.  But he has learnt his lesson.  Now, he would never leave Stiles for the world and all its many pleasures.

Derek runs his thumb across Stiles' knuckles in comfort, "Enough blood has been spilt by my hands to last a lifetime."

John turns to Jackson, "Are you certain about this?  It will be dangerous."

Jackson smiles with a sharp glint in his eye, "I could never live the life of a simple farmer.  I will be a gladiator until my dying day."

Boyd chuckles, "Take it from me, farming is not that bad."

"For you maybe, I would grow terribly bored.  I'd much rather have grapes fed to me by a beautiful woman, than have to pick them off the vine myself."  Ennis cheers and Jackson beams.  Derek is happy for him, Jackson has finally received the approval of his greatest rival.

Stiles whispers into his ear, "Jackson carries some lofty dreams, I fear he plans on owing his own ludus one day."

Derek smirks, "Your fears are probably very founded."

In the end, half of the group decide to follow Jackson to the south.  Most of the house slaves decide to remain with them, but only a few gladiators remain.  It seems they will never tire of spilling blood, even when granted their freedom.

Derek cannot blame them.  Sometimes he finds himself thirsting for the glory of the arena, to feel the roar of the crowd chanting his name over and over again.  But then Stiles shifts beside him on their shared bedroll, pressing his soft nose to Derek's neck as he exhales, snoring lightly, and all thoughts of violence flee his mind.

Stiles is his anchor to what is most important.

Cisalpine is thankfully warm as they pass through. 

They move during the cover of night and rest hidden during the day.  While it is far from Rome, it is still a Roman province and they must always keep their slave brands hidden from view.  They are careful, so very careful.  When they steal food, they do it so no one knows it is missing.  When they pass through towns, they are swift and unmemorable.  Some choose to stay behind and say their goodbyes before disappearing forever into lands unknown.

The Germanic slaves leave just before they cross the alps, choosing to return to their ancestral lands. 

One day, around the campfire, Derek asks Stiles about what he remembers of Gaul.

"Green."  Stiles says, closing his eyes to summon memories lost to time, "Green and heavily forested.  Women who wander bare breasted, hunting, as the men farm the plentiful land.  The scent of burning peat in mires, heavy in the air.   It was always so cold, but my mother would wrap me tightly in the furs of animals she killed herself."  Stiles smiles, "She had tattoos on her face."

Derek's eyes widen, "Truly?"

Stiles frowns, "I think she was our leader."

"You could always ask your father, he would know."  Derek says, but Stiles shakes his head.

"I don't want to know the truth, I like my memory of her as Queen, whether it is true or not.  It would make me a prince.  A slave prince, what a strange conundrum."  Stiles says.

Derek snorts, "But why not return to your homeland as so many are doing?"

Stiles bites his lip.  "My people were slaughtered and enslaved when the Romans came, I was but a child when my mother was cut down in front of me.  There is nothing for me to return to.  I follow Scott now."

"And I follow you."  Derek says, taking Stiles' hand in his, kissing his knuckles.  "Forever."

Until the ends of the earth.

The days grow shorter and the land grows colder as they ascend into the alps, but Derek remains warm wrapped in Stiles' embrace. 

They hunt for the group, keeping everyone fed and warm with furs, protection from the chilly wind, but the day they begin their descent, is still one of the happiest of his life.  Derek lived all his life in Rome, he is still not used to the cold.

Scott leads them along the shore of the sea.  The days grow warmer and there is much food to be found.  But there is still no sign of their destination.  Each and every day, Scott claims they are getting closer, and each and every day ends when they have not yet reached.  John constantly slaps Scott on the back of the head while Stiles laughs so enthusiastically, he chokes on his food.

One day, Scott goes off into the forest to hunt for food, only to emerge hours later, with Allison Argent on his arm.

"By the gods, how did you manage that?"  Melissa remarks staring in shock at her son.  Scott cannot seem to remove his eyes from Allison, and she him.

Derek looks away from the two smitten lovers as Allison explains her and Isaac's villa lies only a short distance away.  Derek turns to Stiles.

"This land is green and heavily forested,"  He whispers into Stiles ear, echoing what Stiles told him out about his homeland.  "I don't smell burning peat, but I do believe that is a great improvement.

Stiles rolls his eyes before pulling Derek forward into a slow, thorough kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the ending seems a bit rushed, it was because I wanted to reunite Scott, Allison, and Issac because they deserve happiness. For me, the fic really ends with Stiles and Derek swimming off into a sewage-y sunset. So romantic.

**Author's Note:**

> Dominus: Latin for master, the feminine is Domina.
> 
> [Ludus](http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/spartacus/images/3/38/Ludus_assets.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20120806043829): A ludus is a privately owned gladiator training school and 'stable.'
> 
> Doctore: The name given to the lead trainer of the gladiators in a ludus. Typically a slave, the Doctore has served as a skilled gladiator in earlier days and enjoys a higher standing within the ludus than the gladiators themselves.
> 
> Medicus: A doctor/surgeon. I used the latin term medicus because people would understandably get doctor confused with doctore...
> 
> [Gladius](http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/spartacus/images/e/e5/Gladius_pseudo.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20120521173239): The typical Roman sword, short and made of bronze.
> 
> Praetor: Praetors commanded armies and served as the judges of the Roman Republic.
> 
> Lanista: A man who purchased and looked after gladiators. They could gain considerable wealth in renting or selling gladiators, particularly to small, local games but their social status was considered low.
> 
> Elysian Fields: The final resting places of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous. Only those who lived a righteous life could enter. To get there, one must be judged by three Kings of Crete, who also happen to be brothers: Minos, Rhadamanthos, and Aeacus.
> 
> Bacchus: Roman God of wine, agriculture, and pretty fucking insane partying. 
> 
> Body Slave: Like a lady-in-waiting or maid. Basically, they help their Dominus or Domina dress in the morning, feed them, bathe them, clip their toenails, massage their corns, etc...
> 
> [Strigil](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ee/Roman_-_Strigil_-_Walters_541926.jpg): A tool for the cleansing of the body by scraping off dirt, perspiration, and oil that were applied before bathing. In Ancient Greek and Roman cultures the strigil was primarily used on men, specifically male athletes.
> 
> [Murmillo](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c2/Mirmillon.jpg): A gladiator fighting style representing the Roman legion. It is the oldest fighting style and the first to use the gladius as its primary weapon. The Murmillo is the most popular of all styles because it is classed as "the home town hero."
> 
> [Missio](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c5/Jean-Leon_Gerome_Pollice_Verso.jpg): The two-fingered sign of surrender in the arena. It features in an 1872 painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme named Pollice Verso, also depicting the controversial thumbs down, made famous in Ridley Scott's 2000 film, Gladiator.
> 
> Diana: Roman goddess of the moon, hunting, and the wild, equivalent to the Greek Artemis.
> 
> Hercules and Iolaus: These guys had the ultimate bromance but with a side of mutual dick touching. There's a shrine of Iolaus in Thebes where male lovers used make vows to each other in a very fuck-yes-homo way.
> 
> The owl of Minerva: The unknown origin of the owl as a symbol of Minerva (the roman goddess of wisdom and strategy) is a great source of contention in the historical field. Minerva's affiliation with owls is the reason why they are considered wise in the Western tradition, but nobody knows the origin. (Except Derek and now Stiles)
> 
> Stola: Clothing for Roman women. The stature of liberty in New York rocks one like a boss.
> 
> Palla: Is basically a shawl.
> 
> The Equirria: Chariot racing, of death. Seriously, spiked wheel spokes were a thing.
> 
> Cisalpine Gaul: Basically just northern Italy.
> 
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> Tag warnings below!
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> 
> Past underage and past rape/non con refers to Kate infrequently (once or twice a year) sexually abusing Derek beginning when he was fifteen until he was eighteen. Derek feels like he cannot tell anyone because in the society he lives in, "strong Roman men don't get sexually abused."
> 
> Non-con elements relates to Stiles being Gerard's body slave. Gerard doesn't touch Stiles in a sexual manner since he is preserving his virginity, but he is fucking bloody creepy.
> 
> Minor character death is Peter and the Hale family before the start of the fic.
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> ***


End file.
